The Mediated Nobel Impasse
by Anonymississippi
Summary: In a world where Leonard doesn't go on a summer expedition for Hawking, and Amy never gets kicked off the addiction study, an event occurs that pushes Pasadena's favorite power couple to the precipice. Someone wins the Nobel Prize. The kicker: it's not Sheldon.
1. Prologue

_**Hello all. First attempt at a multi-chapter Shamy fic, to get me through the summer hiatus. *le sigh* Caveat: This is a WIP. And I hate posting WIPs, especially when I have other projects going; however, I have enough for bi-weekly updates for at least month. So that's something. I don't own it, CBS, Lorre, Prady, all them, they own this. Enjoy!**_

"Hey, Leonard," Penny appeared in the doorway to apartment 4A. "What's the Wi-fi password again?"

"It's now, 'dear lord woman have you ever paid a bill in your life?', capital _D_, no spaces."

"You do realize the more you tell her, the more likely I am to change it again," Sheldon said, typing leisurely on his own laptop.

Leonard swiveled from his work desk, grabbing the remote as he sauntered over to the chair opposite Sheldon's spot.

"What are you even doing awake?" Leonard asked Penny. "Isn't this violating your 'no knocking before eleven a.m. on a Saturday' rule?"

"That rule is only for you two knocking on _my_ apartment door. I'm more than welcome to knock on yours. Besides, hasn't Sheldon been up watching that spacey, British show with his cereal? Didn't think I was actually intruding. And, I might be bidding on a pair of Louis Vuittons that go off sale in the next half hour."

Leonard gave an acknowledging nod in her direction. "You're not intruding, Penny. We're about to live stream the acceptance speeches for this year's Nobel Prize in Physics. You're welcome to join us."

Penny eyed the set up, multiple wires snaking down from USB ports on Leonard's computer to their modest HD television; even with the enhanced streaming, the feed looked choppy.

"A bunch of scientists thanking a bunch of other scientists for things that may or may not have a direct influence on my life within the next thirty years? I think I'm good," Penny said, stabbing the new password viciously into her keyboard. She _wanted_ those shoes. Glancing up once again at her boyfriend and his whack-a-doodle roommate, she threw Leonard a casual grin, reveling in the security of their relationship. It was nice that they had come to such a stable place. He was a good man, she knew; and he had definitely grown more and more into a man in the five or so years she had known him. She could trust him. It was one of the first relationships she had ever been in that she knew, no matter how crazy the roommate, he would willingly give over his Wi-fi password every time.

"Still on for the park this afternoon?" she asked him.

"Got my inhaler prescription yesterday. Bring it on, pollen!"

Penny turned to leave, but the television caught her eye. "Sheldon?" she asked.

"Yes?" he returned, not looking up from his computer screen.

"Where is Amy this weekend?"

"She's out of town at a conference."

"Where?" Penny asked, sidling closer to their television. Leonard perked up at her tone.

"How should I know? It's a _biology_ conference. I respect her work, but I'd rather not listen to countless talks on the science of mushy things."

"Are you sure she wasn't, like, giving a speech or something? She didn't make the cover of another academic journal, did she?"

"As last time she made a giant 'to-do' over her accomplishment, I would assume she would follow the pattern, and would have divulged the information prior to departure. And one doesn't 'make the cover' of an academic journal. One 'makes the cover' of a magazine. The periodicals are distinct. If you're really that interested, why don't you ask her yourself?"

"Cause I can't afford any international calls right now."

"What?" Sheldon asked, removing his eyes from his own screen.

"Penny, what are you talking about?" Leonard asked.

"You said this was the Nobel Prize acceptance speeches, right?"

"Yeah," Leonard confirmed.

"Isn't that in Switzerland?"

"Honestly Penny, it's Sweden," Sheldon corrected, rising from his spot on the couch. He grabbed a mug and crossed to the island in the middle of the kitchen as Penny stared at the television.

"Can you play it?" she asked Leonard.

"It's still loading. We're not going to watch the whole thing, just the acceptance speeches for this year's physics award." He mashed the play button nonetheless.

"But they give awards for other stuff, don't they?"

"That other 'stuff' is other scientific subjects. As well as literature, which seems a complete waste of an award based on _actual_ contributions to society as opposed to aesthetic," Sheldon said, returning to his seat. He propped one gangly leg on the opposing knee, sinking back into the cushion worn over time by his bony bottom.

"Do they give one for biology?" Penny asked.

"No; the hard sciences in the running are physics, chemistry and physiology," Leonard explained.

"But physiology is how body things work, right?" Penny said.

"Penny," Sheldon interrupted. "While I find your newly-discovered fascination in the subject of the Nobel a worthwhile interest, you are delaying our viewing experience. You have our Wi-fi password, so be a dear and get out."

"I would, but I think one of my best friends is about to win the Nobel Prize!" she answered.

"What do you know?" Sheldon asked defensively. "The broadcast is from this year's awards. I haven't received any nomination yet… and while that Kripke fellow holds me back I'm not likely to, either."

"I'm not talking about you, you self-absorbed crazo. I'm talking about your girlfriend!"

"What?!" Sheldon sputtered, leaping from his spot.

"Yeah, what?" Leonard echoed, taking a place beside Penny.

The video had been rolling, muted, but there was a small sign on one of the front rows reading: 'Reserved, Biology, UCLA'. There were several people on the row, all dressed in professional business attire. As the announcer began reading at the podium, English subtitles flashed across the bottom of the screen.

… _and for their landmark study, determining the specific factor leading to addiction in the human brain, the team from UCLA, headed by trio Doctors Kerrigan, Fowler, and Shindek, are being awarded the Nobel Prize in Physiology…_

The announcer continued to read and three people shifted from the reserved row. A middle-aged man, gray all over with heavy brows and a stern countenance led the procession, followed closely by an alternative version of Amy Farrah Fowler, and an Indian gentleman whose caramel skin would have had Raj asking for his exfoliation regimen. Trading her casual, frumpy sweaters for a professionally polished look, Amy donned a tasteful green dress and white blazer, hair curled and heels modest.

"I would like to accept this award on behalf of my colleagues and our wonderful team back in California," Dr. Kerrigan stated. "We've been fortunate enough to make some stimulating discoveries in the realm of nicotine addiction; external examiners expect to market a product ready for public use within the next five years, hopefully ending the battle with addiction for good."

Penny couldn't help but admire the qualified, bright-eyed Amy standing confidently beside her scientific collaborators. One of the onstage presenters dipped his head, whispering to Amy as she politely stood by Dr. Kerrigan. She smiled congenially and nodded. Penny would have to speak with her about flirting with Swedish sciency presenters, as well as this shoe-buying obsession (did that qualify as addiction?). And the fact that Amy let someone else dress her, like Penny had wanted to do for _ages_, in addition to how fond she was of purchasing layered pieces—

"Wait a second!" Penny yelled, pointing accusingly at the screen.

"I know! I can't believe Amy didn't tell us!" Leonard said.

"Pssh, forget that. That's my blazer! My clothing is accepting the Nobel Prize!" Penny beamed at her boyfriend, equal parts astounded and proud for the woman who liked to refer to her as 'bestie'. "So what do you think about your girl now, Sheldon?"

Penny turned, expecting a slack-jawed thirty-something to be staring at the screen. Penny quirked a brow as she scanned the room, no Sheldon anywhere on the premises.

"Do you think he's mad?" Penny asked Leonard.

"I don't know. We don't normally watch the other acceptance speeches. Maybe she never intended for him to know."

"I hope I didn't screw something up for her," Penny confessed. A beep sounded from her laptop, returning her attention to a pair of shoes she was desperately trying to convince herself she could afford. "As much as I love her, I'm lovin' Louis more! See you in an hour?"

Penny escaped back to her apartment, leaving Leonard alone with the winners of this year's Physiology Nobel Prize, an admittedly attractive Amy Farrah Fowler standing off center, hands clasped in front of her, as the international academy for science awarded her with quite possibly the highest honor any researcher could achieve in his or her career.

_Oh yeah_, Leonard thought. _You didn't screw anything up at all_. He sent a pointed look back into the depths of the apartment, eyes lingering over Sheldon's closed door. He settled in to watch the remaining acceptance speeches, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to deal with a hysterical roommate when Amy returned. Or that he'd have to invest further money in litter boxes should the cat debacle recur.

_**Thoughts? Opinions? IC or no? I have the trajectory for the rest of the story. It will be substantial, but nothing super-long. I'd like to say, if it was filmed, it could be like a two-parter episode. Anywho, would love to hear from you. I take any and all feedback. Reviews or follows are heartily appreciated!  
**_


	2. Stockholm Dreaming

_**Thank you SOOOOO much for all of the feedback! Even the lurkers, it's nice to know you guys are reading the piece. Hope this next little chapter delivers. Don't own, never will: belongs to CBS, Lorre, Prady, etc. Enjoy :D**_

Amy was floored. When Shindek had notified her of the nomination weeks ago, she never thought she'd be standing on a stage in Sweden, applauded by the who's who of the modern scientific community. Stephen Hawking was within twenty feet of her! Of course, she'd probably not introduce herself; she'd be too tempted to mention that her boyfriend had beaten him at Words with Friends.

Her boyfriend…

Amy's joy soured slightly. She had told herself that she wouldn't think about him this weekend. That keeping this from Sheldon was in his best interests (not to mention her own). She knew he would be viewing the physics section of the ceremony, no doubt denouncing this year's winner with a haughty scoff of derision and an assertion of his impending win. So Amy felt reasonably secure that no one would find out; she did tell one person, just so someone within her social strata would know she would be going out of the country. She was not foolish, after all. But, should someone else within her social paradigm discover her secret… well, less of a secret, it did make international headlines… should someone discover her surreptitious achievement, she would kindly ask them to defer from informing Sheldon. She _would_ tell him, eventually, after he'd won his own prize. Or maybe ten years into their (hopeful) marriage. By then, he'd be so addicted to his routine there would be no way he'd let her go; she should know. She'd just won the Nobel Prize on addiction.

And she didn't technically lie to Sheldon. She _was_ at a conference, and it did concern biology. Perhaps not her specific discipline, but he'd never asked her for details.

As Kerrigan continued his speech, Amy felt hot breath on her left ear. She remained calm, inclining her head to catch the accented English of one of the Nobel administrators.

"I've worked with animal subjects before, but my female colleagues always handled them better than myself. After hours in the lab, you should be exceedingly proud of your accomplishment. Any research team would be lucky to have you."

Amy wasn't sure how to take the compliment, seeing as Kerrigan was still speaking and there were multiple cameras rolling. It would have been rude to reply, but likewise rude to ignore the man, so she settled for nonverbal communication via a smile, eye contact, and an acknowledging bob of the head.

Their team descended the stage to the sound of polite applause, taking their seats to watch the remainder of the ceremony.

"So," Pari Shindek said, escorting Amy out of the ginormous ballroom. "Will you be joining myself and Melina for drinks tonight? Bobby's pulling the age card and opting for early dining and sleep; says the jetlag's too much for him."

"I resent that," Dr. Robert Kerrigan stated, joining his colleagues in the opulent lobby of the Stockholm _Royale_. "But after schmoozing all last night, and sitting through the ceremony today, it'll be unlikely that I'll be walking past seven p.m, let alone celebrating."

"Come on, Bobby!" Shindek said. "You've got to live a little. Just because we're a decade or two your juniors doesn't mean we wouldn't watch out for you. It will be a bar full of scientists; I fear the only excitement will stem from possible chemical reactions with mixed drinks should someone start dipping Alka-seltzers in carbonation."

The threesome giggled, Amy attempting to place scientific experiments within a bar setting. She made a mental note to use alcoholic inspired hypotheses to get Penny interested in science.

"I'm afraid not, Pari. After all the time I've spent at the lab, my wife deserves an early romantic dinner in a foreign city, and I intend to deliver while it's on someone else's tab! You and Amy have fun. I'll catch you next week."

And with that, the elder gentleman found his pudgy, greying wife of thirty-five plus years. Amy sighed, averting her gaze downward.

"That was wonderful Pari!" A short Indian woman skipped over toward the remaining UCLA pair, wrapping her husband in a tight embrace. "And you were afraid you were going to trip."

"From his significant lack of traction in the lab, I'm surprised he remained upright for the duration," Amy teased.

"It's not my fault. The monkeys like to throw things on the floor. They just want to see us suffer."

"Well, they do have good reason. We were getting them hooked on drugs," Amy said.

"_Were_ being the operative word," Melina said. "You two are due for some off-time. Amy, please say you'll come down to the lounge with us tonight. Just because Sheldon couldn't get off of work, doesn't mean you can't have a little celebration."

"Ah… uhm, sure, I'll come down for a drink or two. But I can't have too much. I've an early flight."

"Early?" Pari asked. "We're not due back at the university until the end of the month. And you know your stay is completely covered for another two nights. Why did you book a return flight so soon?"

"I've… uh—" Amy hadn't thought about lying to her colleagues. She was just going to stay the weekend, as with most conferences. If she didn't return by Monday for their preliminary weekly Skype call, Sheldon would become suspicious. "I've just got a lot to do back home," Amy replied vaguely. "There are some personal projects in the works that could really use my attention, now that I've got the time off from the lab. And, as you said, Sheldon's not here. But we'll be celebrating once I return home."

_Crap_. She didn't mean that. Pari and Bobby frequently saw Sheldon when he came by for lunches at her lab. What if they said something to him? Looks like bi-monthly lab lunch Tuesday would have to be nixed. At least for the next three years.

"Alright, well, you'll at least come down tonight," Pari insisted.

"Sure," Amy said. "I'm going back to my room for the time being, though. If I want to make a passing attempt at conviviality, I'll need a powernap."

"We'll probably do the same," Pari said, turning with his wife.

Amy felt a twinge of jealousy as the couple retreated, Melina purring in Pari's ear: "Someone _actually_ needs a little reward for looking so handsome onstage… I doubt we'll have time to nap."

Even if she couldn't get a special 'reward', it would have been nice to have Sheldon with her. She would have been perfectly okay with separate bedrooms.

* * *

_Did u hear?_

Bernadette stared at her phone, turning down the dial on the stove. The stir-fry wasn't her favorite dish, but it was simple and Howard liked the seasoning.

_Hear what?_ She typed back. Penny had a reputation for lacking clarity via text messages.

_Amy won a science award & didnt tell any1… _

Uh-oh. Bernadette's tiny fingers went to work on her touch screen, conversation much preferable to ambiguous text speak.

"Hey, can you believe it?!" Penny said after a single ring.

"Actually… yeah, I kinda can."

"What? How?"

"Amy told me about it a few weeks ago," Bernadette confessed.

"Huh," Penny answered. "It's weird she didn't say anything to me. I may not know a lot about science, but I know winning an award is great. It's not an Oscar, but what can you do?"

"She was afraid you would let it slip to Leonard," Bernadette clarified. "You're not exactly great at keeping secrets."

"I… might… you're right, it's not my thing," Penny admitted.

"Wait, does Sheldon know?!" Bernadette asked.

"Of course he knows. Do you think I randomly look up science awards for fun? I walked in on him and Leonard watching some ceremony and pointed her out to them."

"Amy said they only screened the physics section. They weren't supposed to be watching the physiology recipients!"

Bernadette heard an audible gulp on the other end of the line.

"Well, who can say who pointed who out to whom?" Penny responded evasively.

"You made them watch her, didn't you?"

"Maybe a little bit," Penny said.

Bernadette huffed, removing the large pan from the stove eye. She crossed to her coffee table and opened her laptop.

"Looks like we're in for some drama when she gets back."

"I didn't mean to, but I think that's something she should have told us. I mean, we could have taken her out to congratulate her!" Penny said.

"That's just it," Bernadette said, clicking on her email icon. "She didn't tell anyone besides me because she didn't want any special attention whatsoever. She was absolutely emphatic and did _not_ want Sheldon to know. Amy was afraid that if he did, he would—"

"If Sheldon breaks up with Amy because she did something good, I will give him the biggest kick in the pants he has ever come across."

"How's he taking it?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him since this morning."

"I'm going to send an email to Amy. She'll have the entire flight back to figure out what she should say to him," Bernadette said, typing away.

"God, if those two would just sit down and talk to each other without using five syllable words, stuff like this wouldn't happen."

"I don't know. Sheldon's got jealousy issues, but I tried to discourage Amy from doing this. She _lied_ to him, Penny. About something big."

"Looks like I'm going to need more wine, should this lead to tears."

"Looks like it. I'll call you later?"

"Sure thing."

Bernadette placed her phone aside. She highlighted the font and changed the color to a glaring crimson, the message titled RED ALERT whisked off on the electronic byways of the interwebs. She really hoped Amy checked her email this weekend.

* * *

Amy traipsed into her hotel room, contently buzzed, her confidence at a substantial high. Melina and Pari were lovely company, as were a select few attendees on the younger side of the age spectrum. All of the scientists were congenial, but some were downright flirtatious. Admittedly, Amy might not be the most experienced when it came to provincial social interactions on the Pasadena club scene, but stick her in a bar with other high-caliber professionals and she might be considered an absolute tease. No wonder that Saudi Arabian prince had proposed marriage. Her neuron banter with a pair of biologists from Germany earned her two bought drinks at their expense. She'd spent nearly half an hour debating the benefits of receptor transmission blockers with a comely gentleman from Johns Hopkins. When he suggested they continue their discussion in his hotel suite, she felt it her duty to reign in her sensuality and inform him of her relationship status. She was unused to opposing gender interactions without Bernadette and Penny operating as buffers; she hoped she hadn't acted inappropriately.

"Pity," James had said, throwing back the rest of his scotch. "Lucky bastard better not challenge you on dendrite stimulation. But, if you change your mind…hey, barkeep!" he gestured toward the man juggling glass bottles. "You got a pen on you?"

The bar tender scuttled down the alcohol-saturated slab of mahogany, stealing one of the Sharpie markers David Attenborough had been using to sign his books.

"Naturalists, what can you do?" James said with a wink, as he assertively took her hand and scrawled 3027 in the soft spot behind her thumb. "I could _definitely _make you come around to my argument, given a little more time."

Amy blushed heavily and excused herself, extending her gratitude and goodbyes to Peri and his wife. James caught her eye on her way to the elevator, raising his glass in salute.

Now back in her bedroom, she eyed herself curiously. The curls of her 'special event' hair from the all-expense paid spa at the _Royale_ were now frizzily drooping, whatever bounce there had been earlier at the ceremony depleted from so much activity. Amy was glad to have a bit of her friend with her, even if she did feel bad about taking Penny's blazer. But, as her bestie had informed her, it technically qualified as 'borrowing'. She wondered why Penny and Bernadette never 'borrowed' anything from her wardrobe. Her selection of comfy cardigans was insurmountable.

Penny's blazer just went so well with the new green dress the department had supplied specifically for the occasion (after being mandated by UCLA that she was _not_ allowed to wear her normal lab attire to Stockholm). She was a representative of university, they said, and should take pride in looking like one. She was also glad to rid herself of those infernal heeled boots that had her dogs barking, kicking the ankle-high impracticalities across the room as she wrestled with her hose. After a shower with questionable Swedish hygiene products and a change, she grabbed her phone to set the alarm for her early departure. Noticing two new emails, she connected to the hotel's wireless and skimmed through her inbox. One was a reminder from the airline about an online check-in, and the other was from Bernadette, subject line, RED ALERT.

Amy tentatively tapped the message and scrolled through the brief script, falling back heavily against the headboard.

"I am so attached to another object on an inclined plane helically wrapped around an axis."

_**A bit more build up before the confrontation... *cue cheesy voice over* Will Sheldon blow his top? What's the aftermath for Amy and her international accolade? Tune in next time, for these answers, and more! All part of The Mediated Nobel Impasse! *ends music* Reviews, speculations, and follows always appreciated. :)**_


	3. When One Argues in the Apartment

_**Everybody seems to want to know Sheldon's reaction. I consider myself a benevolent overlord, and aim to please, despite the fact that I'm probably going to get a lot of flack for this chappie of angsty-ness. Did you come here to listen to me explain or read what Sheldon is gonna say to Amy?! Oh, the latter. K... don't own it. Won't own it. Enjoy :)**_

Amy had occasionally wondered about the effects of sleep deprivation, so much so that she had submitted a proposal to the department head for experimental funding. However, she never wanted to put any subjects, human or monkey, through this type of unpleasantness.

She had departed from Stockholm at ten a.m. on a Sunday. After a hellacious layover in Chicago, she arrived safely back in her apartment at five a.m. Monday morning. She had attempted sleep on the planes, but the combined knowledge of succumbing to night terrors at 30,000 feet as well as imagining Sheldon's reaction kept her from a decent REM completion. It was nearly six in the evening (the end of prevening, according to Sheldon), which would be signaled by the tell-tell tinkle from her Skype application. She'd written an apology on the plane, complete with nearly six months worth of Relationship Agreement concessions; lab lunches would be scrapped completely, all physical contact prohibited, and date night suspended for two months. And when they did resume (if they resumed?), he would have choice of activity as well as food preference for the indefinite future. It was the least she could do.

Amy paced her living room, meandering from behind her kitchen sink to the desk that once housed Ricky, her ticket to Nobel recognition. All that time ago, she'd never thought that ass of a monkey would lead to this kind of achievement, or her first kiss with her boyfriend… And we're back to Sheldon.

Six o'clock came and went. No Sheldon. At a quarter past, Amy set to making dinner; she couldn't be bothered for anything fancy, but was dying for something edible that hadn't been nuked in a Boeing. _Sheldon probably just needs time_, she thought, slicing through a broccoli stalk. And Penny could help her. Her bestie frequently knew how to handle awkward social interactions in which she found herself woefully inept.

She grabbed her phone.

_Salutations bestie!_

Dolloping out a spoonful of vinaigrette, Amy waited until her phone buzzed.

_Besties tell each other when they win awards… U wud know if I had gotten an Emmy._

Amy felt the urge to retaliate testily but curbed her response, even though Penny had yet to secure an acting job other than the admittedly humorous hemorrhoid commercial from some years back.

_I was clearly in the wrong keeping this from you. But I was planning on telling you after the ceremony; I just couldn't risk Sheldon finding out._

_Too late for that, Sweetie._

_As I've discovered from Bernadette's intel. If I reciprocate by purchasing copious amounts of alcohol, would you be willing to advise me on how best to handle the situation?_

_Can't 2nite Ames. On shift CF._

Amy stuck her tongue out in thought, her plans for the evening coming up nil.

_What if I instead planted myself firmly on a bar stool and tipped you generously while you provided __**me**__ drinks? I've been awarded a substantial monetary supplement recently…_

_VODKA & CRANBERRY THE READY! C U IN 15!_

_Thank you, Penny._

Amy shoveled some greens into her mouth and raced into the bathroom. Tired but always up for girl talk, she was eyeing her closet reproachfully when she heard two short raps on her front door.

6:42? Who the heck… Probably her neighbor again.

"Mr. Fredrickson," Amy called, hand on the doorknob. "I can't help it if the Wilderness Scouts want to sell you cookies—"

"I wouldn't object to Wilderness Scout cookies," Sheldon said.

Amy's lower jaw dropped, her mouth forming a fearful 'o'.

"Provided they were shipped instead of hand delivered. Swarming with germs, those kids. I mean, their name alone sends shudders through the body."

Amy had not moved, nor had she been struck with the brilliant notion to formulate words.

"I believe it is social custom for the girlfriend to invite the boyfriend in when he surprises her at her door."

"You hate surprises," Amy finally sputtered. "But yes, come in."

Sheldon entered sedately and removed his jacket.

"You didn't knock."

"I believe I did."

"You didn't do_ your_ knock."

"Oh, yes. That was intentional; I needed to be sure you would grant me access. But now that I'm in, would you like for me to do it anyway? I would prefer it, though it seems redundant."

"No, I don't think that will be necessary." She stood at a distance, Sheldon perched in his appointed 'spot' on her sofa. "Can I… uh, get you a hot beverage?"

"Hot beverages are for when I'm upset."

"So… you're not upset?" Amy asked, opening the fridge for a YooHoo.

"Not yet."

Her head hit the freezer door in an inevitable thud. "Sheldon, you know I'm sorry," she said to the appliance.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my girlfriend lying to me," he replied testily.

"Come on Sheldon, that was a low blow. I'm sorry," she said, passing the YooHoo bottle to his proffered hand. She sat opposite him, wondering if her sofa could simply sink in to the point where it swallowed her whole, an implosive black hole of cushions. "It was wrong of me to lie to you, but I was afraid."

"Afraid? I am many things, but I don't believe I strike fear in the hearts of the general public."

She sighed. "That's not what I mean. I feared that my success would somehow emasculate you, or instill feelings of inequality, lead to jealousy, and I didn't want that to affect our relationship. We've been making such progress."

"So you thought lying to me was a better option."

"I wasn't _technically_ lying. I did tell you I was going to a conference. You just didn't ask—"

Sheldon held up a hand. "I've used similar arguments against both Leonard and Penny before, and, while the logic is sound, I can understand why they discount the excuse. It still leaves a hint of discomfort."

"Discomfort?"

"_Betrayal_ seemed like too strong a word, though that would have been the more appropriate descriptor."

"I—" Amy stared at her hands, not wanting to tear up after she'd just been awarded the best prize of her life. How was it that Sheldon Cooper could take the best things and make them seem so trivial, and then take the simple things, like a board game, or an emergency contact letter, and turn them into the most meaningful expressions of feeling she had ever experienced?

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"I find myself repeating this, in the exact same spot nonetheless, and I really don't like it. I thought our relationship was based on trust, and a mutual admiration that skewed in my favor."

"It is!"

"Your actions indicate otherwise."

"Sheldon, I—" she glanced up from her hands, meeting his stare. She now considered herself competently adept at reading facial cues thanks to Penny's guidance, so what she saw baffled her slightly. Sheldon didn't seem angry, or even flustered for that matter. She'd seen him in both emotional states prior to this moment. Instead, it looked like he was experiencing some bewilderment, underscored with curiosity and something undeterminable. He seemed almost… wary. Like he was afraid. What did he have to be afraid of her for? _She _was the one in the proverbial hot water.

"Why would you lie to me about your winning the Nobel Prize?"

"I thought you were going to terminate our Relationship Agreement." It was as honest an answer as she could give.

"Because you excelled in your field? Amy," Sheldon said, in that school-teacher voice he occasionally acquired when he relayed facts of the universe to lesser minds. "I would not have instated the agreement in the first place if you were not exceptional at what you did. I wouldn't place myself in a pair-bond with someone who wasn't exceedingly capable."

"You tend to get a little jealous sometimes," Amy confessed. Sheldon's brows shot up in response. "Don't do that, you know you do. You had us vandalize University property as a metaphorical usurpation of a parking spot you don't even use!"

"That is beside the point."

"No, it's exactly the point!" Amy paused, gathering her argumentative ammunition. "Howard did something good, and he was subsequently rewarded. You then ended your friendship with him. I'm a neurobiologist. I study patterned behavior in primates. How was I not supposed to think you wouldn't do the same thing to me if I did something good?"

Sheldon silently nodded.

"That was a logical deduction," he said.

"That's why I didn't tell you, Sheldon. I… I'm proud of what I did. I've given roughly six years to that research project, and my team and I were very dedicated. And we've done something fabulous! Imagine how I felt when I got the notification… Elation, a sense of achievement, of completion. But I couldn't share that with you, arguably the only person I really wanted to know, because I feared… well, as I said. And I know that lying to you wasn't the right way to go about it. You haven't won the Nobel Prize yet. But I have no doubt that you will!" Amy quickly clarified.

She reached out to his hands, then deftly transitioned to tucking her hair behind her ear upon realizing that she would be in violation of the physical contact clause. She didn't want to risk increasing Sheldon's ire with another breach of the agreement.

"I've typed up an apology, in addition to the repeated verbal ones I've given, and made some concessions concerning our Relationship Agreement that can go into effect as soon as you want them to."

She passed the document over and Sheldon scanned it, eyes darting yet brow furrowing.

"You've basically ceded all date thematic decisions to me, and have done away with our prescribed interactions over the next two months. You even gave me complete creative control over next Halloween's couple's costume."

Amy nodded demurely. "I, uh, I feel really bad that I lied to you."

"This seems rather… excessive," Sheldon said suspiciously.

"Really?" Amy brightened. "I didn't know how you'd react. I suppose I, uhm, prepared for the worst."

"Why did you suspend all upcoming dates?" he asked. There it was again, in his tone. _Wariness_.

"I thought you wouldn't want to see me."

"I enjoy your company. You're one of the few people I actually like being around. That's more of a punishment for both of us."

"Alright," Amy continued. This was going much better than she had anticipated.

"Although, you do realize this is the second time you've lied to me. Blatantly. Perhaps I should put an amendment in the agreement. But I don't want addressing the issue to pave the path for repeated behavior."

"I understand, it won't happen again. I promise, Sheldon."

Sheldon wouldn't look at her, instead skimming the rest of the typed apology. She could have sworn he was mumbling, something like, "… what you said last time." But she didn't want to question him in this state. That undeterminable look faded from his face, replaced with something akin to pride.

"Amy, I think you underestimate my confidence in my abilities."

"I assure you, you don't let anyone underestimate your confidence."

"And yet you felt I would feel inferior to you because I had not received the same accolade that you had garnered? Really, Amy. I'm _going_ to win the Nobel Prize. I still have my entire career ahead of me. 74.9% of Nobel Laureates in Physics do not receive a nomination until they reach the age of 45. I'm unsure of the percentages for physiology, but I'd wager that you, my dear, are an anomaly."

Sheldon rarely complimented Amy. And this wasn't even a compliment so much as a statement of fact. Still, Amy couldn't stop the familiar prickle of heat in her cheeks.

"Thank you, Sheldon."

"You're welcome. I'm… quite proud of you, Amy."

Amy suppressed the urge to full-body tackle her boyfriend into a cuddle, settling for a smile and prolonged eye contact.

"Well, as this meeting has certainly altered my usual Monday night routine, I believe I should be going," Sheldon said.

"Of course. I'm sorry you felt the need to come over here. Although, I appreciate that we got this misunderstanding cleared out of the way. This doesn't change anything for us, right?"

Sheldon paused and asked uncertainly, "Why would it?" The undeterminable look returned.

"I don't know. I just… I want you to know that I'm very happy with my job, and I'm happy that I'm in a relationship with you."

"Naturally you are. I'm amazing," Sheldon said defensively.

"Yep."

As Amy followed Sheldon to the door, she nearly bumped into his back as he turned abruptly, extending his hand. It brushed against her (admittedly heavily layered) navel, but she just managed to stifle a 'hoo'.

"What are you—"

"I believe the Relationship Agreement stipulates a hearty handshake upon receipt of the Nobel Prize," Sheldon said with a slight smile.

Amy returned it and took his hand in her own, grasping it as he began the customary vertical pumping motion. Her breath caught as he pulled her closer, slowly bringing her hand nearer to his face.

Was he going to kiss her? Was _that_ what that look had been? She could lean in, hand in his, and then this could be the most perfect…

"What's this?" Sheldon asked.

"Huh?"

"This, faded number here, on your hand. Can't be a flight, four numbers is atypical for trans-Atlantic. Permanent marker? 3-0-2-7. You know that writing on the back of your hand in Sharpie is not only tacky, but in extreme cases can lead to ink poisoning."

"Sheldon, it's noth—" she caught herself. Amy had just promised him that she wouldn't lie to him, and she didn't want to start off this oath of non-lying with… well, a lie.

"I didn't write it on my hand," she said.

"Who did? And why would someone be writing on your hand?"

"It was a man I met in Stockholm. His name was James, he's a researcher at Johns Hopkins."

"But what's the number?"

Amy took a deep breath. "It's the number to a hotel room."

"Why would a researcher from Johns Hopkins write a hotel room number on your hand?"

Amy inclined her head and gave Sheldon a pointed stare.

Sheldon stared back, seemingly unawares.

"He was, ehm, directing me," she said carefully. "Should I want to…"

Sheldon's face remained openly curious.

"Don't make me say it, please. He wanted to… you know," Amy said, eyes locked on their conjoined hands.

"He wanted— oh," Sheldon said, dropping her hand as if she had stung him. "Oh."

If he had once felt proud, he didn't anymore. Sheldon contemplated Amy, lips screwed together, upper body tightly wound. His movements became jerky, and that look, the one she had been trying to decipher all night, had returned with a vengence.

"And," he gritted, "because you were a winner, and away at a conference with the intellectually superior, you went ahead and—"

"Of course not!" Amy said, affronted. "How could you think that? I didn't realize… that is, I didn't intend— as soon as he propositioned me I told him I had a boyfriend."

"Who you conveniently didn't inform that you would be going out of the country?" Sheldon asked, openly hurt.

"Sheldon, that is not the reason I didn't tell you," she said.

Amy was beginning to worry; she saw the wheels in his head turn, churn, spin in place and deflate, all in a few agonizing facial expressions. It was like his calm understanding from earlier had evaporated, replaced by suspicion and… that word again, _betrayal_. She could have been mistaken, but she thought she recognized that look. She'd only seen it in movies, so that's why it seemed so foreign to her, so difficult to catalogue; but watching Sheldon's face now, she was sure of it, and it frightened her. It was the look of someone having his heart broken.

"Sure, it's not like I've been going to science conventions for my entire career," Sheldon continued. "Not like I don't know they're a veritable den of iniquity, researchers bed-hopping in hotel suites even though they're supposed to be there contributing to the mysteries of the universe! When scientists turn into trampy tarts because they finally get a chance to get outside the lab."

He was almost hyperventilating, but she was the one doubting the oxygen levels in the room. Surely he wasn't doing this, wasn't accusing her of breaking their agreement. Winning the Nobel Prize behind his back, _that_ she could handle. But he was practically implying that she was a cheater, or a… a whore.

"Sheldon—"

"Where did you talk to him? Conference room? Biology round table?"

_No lying Amy_. _No matter how bad it looks. _

"I, uh, met him at the hotel bar."

"Figures."

"No, Sheldon, it wasn't like I was _trying_—"

"Were there other people there? Not at the conference, at the bar, I mean. That is the 'social scene', right? Where everybody goes to lose control of their faculties? How many other numbers did you scrub off of your hand?"

"Seriously, Sheldon, this is escalating and you are falling into a slippery-slope fallacy. You know that I didn't—"

"Well, you were one of the _winners_ after all. He's probably just inserting himself in your good social graces, should he need a recommendation for a grant in the future."

She jerked back and squared her shoulders.

"I didn't— how can you… how… how dare you?"

"Excuse me?"

"No," Amy said breathily. The tears began brimming. "How _dare_ you accuse me of that? I would never, NEVER cheat on you, let alone act so ethically unprofessional."

"I can't know that. You go off, gallivanting across foreign countries without my knowledge, come home with numbers written on your hand like Penny used to! Or worse, some garden-variety streetwalker—"

Amy couldn't help it. Her open palm had connected with his left cheek before she could stop herself. The stress of jet lag, secrecy, bad food, and worry had nearly dismantled her, and she was appalled at herself for taking it out on the one who deserved it least. She brought both hands to her mouth and let out a squeak, tears leaking despite her attempts to quell them, glasses fogging as she started rambling:

"Oh my god, Sheldon! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it! Please…" she closed their distance, torn between wanting to broach his space with physical contact and remaining restrained to maintain his preference. His cheek was flushed but his eyes were ice.

"I think it best that I leave now. We will discuss this at another time."

"No, wait, Sheldon! I'm sorry, so sorry. Please…" he stopped at her open doorway. "You asked me about the number and I didn't want to lie to you again. But I didn't have sex with James."

Sheldon turned back to her, face more composed but eyes just as threatening.

"Fact: You have lied and have manipulated me before. Fact: You have lied about your whereabouts and your activities. Fact: You have, _vehemently_ expressed your desire for a physical relationship. Fact: You just confessed you feared I would _terminate_ our relationship before your trip. Fact: You have another man's hotel number written on your hand. Fact: You have presented me with an agreement that severs all communication and interaction with me for the next two months! I may not be skilled at social analysis, but let me give it a shot: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I give you leeway because you've won a Nobel Prize. Fool me again…" he stopped, dropping her carefully typed apology and Relationship Agreement concessions at her feet. "Sleep with whoever you want."

He stalked out of her apartment.

_**And you guys thought last time was a cliff hanger *maniacal laugh* **_

_**Hate me for it? Love me for it? Thought it escalated too quickly? I'm not entirely happy with the pacing. Would love to hear from you, though. Reviews always appreciated :D**_


	4. One Drinks Outside of It

_**Wowzers! Some very passionate feedback over that last chapter. I love it! But, on the downside, no Sheldon in this chappie. On the upside, it's quite long and gives loads of background. Oh? You thought the Nobel thing was the main plot device? Think again! I'm going to stop now... See if you care to follow this story... Have I mentioned I don't own any of this? Enjoy :)**_

"Helloooooo bestie!" Amy crooned, ambling off-balance to the bar stool of the Cheesecake Factory. Being a Monday night, the bar area was sparse. "I'll have the strongest thing you have back there! Yeah!"

Amy attempted to twirl on the swiveling bar stool, only making it 45 degrees upon discovering the bar stools didn't, in fact, swivel.

"Oh, that's unfortunate," she muttered.

"Amy?" Penny said questioningly as she dried a glass behind the counter. "Are you alright? You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

"I am exceptional! If you didn't know, I just won the NOBEL PRIZE!"

"Congratulations!" Penny said, sliding her a cocktail.

"To my bestie! May she win awards and still be able to maintain her relationships! Bottoms up!" Amy threw back the cocktail in a gulp, suckling on the cherry once she drained the liquid.

Penny did a double take.

"Take your glasses off," she instructed Amy.

"Why, are you having trouble seeing? 'Cause these babies are 45/30 prescription monsters! Premium sight savers, right here!"

"Your eyes are shot and you're already pissed," Penny said.

"Pissed, trashed, wasted, sopped, toasted, inebriated, fried, nope… that one refers to food. But yes, prior to my entrance to this quaint dining establishment, I stopped by your local Quick-Mart, purchased a glass bottle, and then sat in the parking lot with some very unpleasant tasting liquid. But I feeeeeeel better now!"

"Amy, if you don't calm down, my manager's going to ask you to leave," Penny said, throwing a wary glance in the back. "I know that winning the award calls for a celebration, but you could have waited for me and Bernadette to take you out. Drinking alone just seems sad."

"Sad? Affirmative. Award? Pssh…" Amy rested her elbows on the bar, awkwardly propping her head between her hands. "I've decided that awards aren't all they're cracked up to be. Just when I get one of the only things I've ever wanted in life, fate sees fit to snatch away the other thing I've yearned for most. I cannot, as the adage goes, 'have my cake and eat it too'. It doesn't matter," Amy said, pushing herself up off of her elbows. "Cause pretty Penny is gonna fix me another drink, and I don't have to worry about it!"

"Amy, what's going on?"

"Nothing. Just came down for the chats with my girlfriend and a drink to top off the night."

"Are you sure? Don't you have to be in the lab tomorrow?"

"Did you not hear me, bestie?" she said, tapping the bar top. "I've just won the Nobel Prize. I could technically retire at this point, consign myself to lower-level teaching. Once they patent the drug from our testing procedures, I'm going to be known as the woman who cured nicotine addiction! Hell, _every_ addiction if we can tweak the chemical compositions… The point is, I don't ever have to go back to the lab if I don't want to."

"But do you want to?"

"Sure I _want_ to," Amy answered, -_sh_ sound slurred beyond comprehension. "But it never matters what I want, honestly. I've got the next few weeks off. No pressure to come back. I was supposed to be in Stockholm today, you know? James and I, he said he would've taken me to see the sights, told me about an art museum. I don't normally examine art, but I could have gone if I would've stayed—"

"Woah, James? Who's James?"

"Oh, Penny? You don't know about James? Wonderful guy, that James. Picked him up at a bar; well, not really. Just some harmless conversation. Wasn't even trying to flirt! I think that's what I was doing… I specifically remember debating receptor blockages with the new drugs out of Boston."

"That doesn't sound like flirting to me."

"I know! Which is why I was so taken aback when he wrote his hotel number on my hand."

"Wait, WHAT?!" Penny yelled. The few patrons turned to the bar, casting questionable glances at Penny and the swaying brunette precariously squatting on the barstool. "He wanted to hook up with you?"'

"I find that term exceedingly ambiguous."

"Ames, come on. You didn't cheat on Sheldon, right?"

"Of course I didn't cheat on Sheldon, not that _he_ thinks that."

"Again, what?"

"The reason I didn't come down right away was because Sheldon came to my apartment," she huffed. "I had this apology all typed up; I'd even sacrificed some of the amendments I fought so hard for him to change in the Relationship Agreement. You want to know the kicker, bestie? He didn't even _care_ that I had won the Nobel. He said he was…" she gulped. "He said he was _proud_ of me."

"Awe, Ames, that's a really big deal for Sheldon."

"I know. I thought that we… Penny, I thought that we were getting to a point where I could tell him… anyway," she continued, swiping at her eyes. "We talked it out. He was disappointed that I'd lied to him. And I've done it before, back when I pretended to be sick. But it's always been for our relationship. At least, that's what I thought; maybe I was just making it worse. But he was okay. He was totally fine until I told him about James."

"Wait, you _told_ him?"

"I wasn't going to. It didn't mean anything. Just a conversation at a bar."

"That's insane," Penny said. Amy held up her hands in a defeated gesture, and Penny felt so bad she wanted to give her another drink. Erring on the side of caution, she placed a glass of water in front of her.

"I think he broke up with me, Penny."

"Without written notice? I doubt it, sweetie."

"No… Sheldon was really angry and… hurt. You know I didn't cheat on him, right?"

"Of course I do. You wouldn't do that to him or yourself. I'm not defending him, but let's look at it from Sheldon's point of view. Amy, you have to remember that Sheldon's interactions are so loaded. He might not kiss you, or have sex with you yet. But you talking with him is something really important. The things you do together, even your conversations, they mean something different to him than they do to you or me. So when some other guy takes that from him, takes his means of interacting with you on that special level, and then ups the ante by giving you the opportunity for something Sheldon _can't_, it's not just a one-off conversation. It's like he went and made out with you."

"That's irrational."

"That's _Sheldon_," Penny asserted.

"Huh. You know, I won a Nobel Prize, and I'm no wiser than any other woman with man problems. You're serving drinks at the Cheesecake Factory, and you have the potential to be a brilliant therapist if you ever wanted to go that route. Keen insight into the human brain, that's what you've got," Amy said, petting her bestie on the head.

"This isn't the brain," Penny said. "It's here," she continued, patting her chest. "I think he underestimates you."

"No, he verbally recognized my contributions—"

"I think he underestimates how he feels about you," Penny corrected.

Amy screwed up her face and sipped hesitantly at her water. "I need to talk to him."

"Not tonight you don't," Penny said. "Go home. Have a vacation. Take a few 'me' days. I'll call you later and we'll have girls night, promise. Just give Sheldon a bit of space, he'll come around."

Amy made to move off the stool.

"Oh no you don't. I'm calling you a cab. Park it, missy."

Amy responded with a drunken salute and proceeded to fill Penny in on the rest of the particulars of hers and Sheldon's interaction. By the end of the night her head was aching, she was emotionally spent, and she had little doubt in her mind that she was much too in love with Sheldon Cooper.

* * *

Amy never thought a communication device could be her worst enemy. But the plastic phone and its incessant, crescendoing blips did little to accommodate the paralleling crescendo in her head. After an embarrassing ride via cab transport due to her hyperinebriated state, Amy had retreated to the safety of her home, attempted to rehydrate, and swallowed a few aspirin as a preemptory measure against the hangover she knew was coming.

She recalled that on her last drunken rampage, she had expelled the contents of her stomach prior to falling asleep. Last night, she was not so lucky. The alcohol had thus metabolized in her system, and she was feeling it tenfold this morning. She crawled across her covers and checked the screen nonetheless, should Sheldon call and wish to discuss their argument. She'd never fancied herself _that girl_, the one who waits patiently by the phone for her pair-bonded partner to call, but this morning she was just incoherent enough to accept the label.

The number, however, was not from her wished-to-be-heard-from boyfriend, but from UCLA. She recognized the opening digits as the landline combination for University use, but didn't have the number preprogrammed into her phone. It was thus a call not from her department, nor from her colleagues' offices, nor from staff support services. She was in no condition to articulately speak with anyone, let alone some unknown University staffer.

After a shower, more aspirin, and a breakfast of coffee and several syrup-saturated waffles, Amy felt well enough to return the call.

Two short rings and this was not the department she was expecting:

"UCLA, president's office."

"Oh, I must have misdialed. I'm Dr. Fowler, I believe I received a call from this number…"

"One moment please."

And while Amy was on hold she took a moment to recall if she had broken any university policies recently. Letting Sheldon slice into her specimens was certainly a breach, and taking Ricky home was one step too close to stealing university property. Her credentials with the Nobel Prize might get her out of letting competing CalTech faculty into her lab, but animal transport had consequences: she'd looked into getting a monkey before, and the permits required were outrageous!

"I'm sorry, President Marshall has an appointment, currently. But he would like to arrange a meeting with you, Dr. Fowler, at your earliest convenience."

"Earliest? Like—"

"This afternoon, if possible. Say three p.m.? I was informed that you would not be returning to your lab directly."

"No, that's… that's correct." Amy was a little unnerved. What did the President's office want with a lowly researcher?

"I'll inform President Marshall of your arrival; three o'clock," the receptionist said.

"Can I ask what this is concerning?"

"I believe it has to do with your study, as well as a formal congratulations. He'll fill you in with further details."

"Okay," Amy said shakily.

"Thank you. Goodbye."

The click sounded louder than it should have. It could have been the alcohol still lingering in her system, but Amy suddenly had the urge to vomit.

* * *

Amy bit the inside of her cheek as she rode the elevator to the sixth floor. All those administration jokes she'd made in the past, "That's a _sixth floor_ problem," she would say, every time funding was cut or proposals denied or advertising reduced for the biology department; hopefully they weren't all coming back to bite her in the a—

"Dr. Fowler, I presume?" a middle-aged man in a dark suit extended his hand. Amy shook it cautiously. "Great to meet you, William Blakeman, new head of University Relations. President Marshall should be back any moment."

"Not any moment, now, Bill," another older gentleman said, whisking into the lobby area of the stately office. He snapped his fingers at the pair of them. "Come, come! I'm afraid I'm pressed for time," he continued.

Amy followed demurely behind 'Bill', sitting in the high-backed leather chair that President Marshall had indicated. Light blue and gold tchotchke peppered the otherwise warm office, contrasting oddly with the cherry wood furniture and ornate shelving. A portrait of a severe looking gentleman hung over the mantelpiece; Amy though the heavy-browed man was silently judging her, just like the two more corporeal suits currently in her presence.

"Now, Dr. Fowler," President Marshall said, picking up a rather impressive looking folder. "I suppose congratulations are in order?"

"That's right they are," Bill said, unbuttoning his suit coat as he sat next to Amy. "Well deserved."

"Indeed. When one of our own is recognized on the international stage, we like to make sure they know they're appreciated," Marshall continued.

"Thank you both," Amy said, dipping her head in acknowledgment. She'd never been great with department politics, let alone administrative brown-nosing; not to mention, she was still only operating at a 5 out of 10. Curse the clear alcohols. She was hoping the entire incident would blow over quickly so she could hole up in her lab with her favorite beaker and pipette.

"Drs. Kerrigan and Shindek are still in Sweden, I believe? My assistant emailed me and said they wouldn't be back in the country until the end of the week at earliest," Marshall continued.

"I'm not positive, sir," Amy said. "I know Pari was planning on visiting other places in Europe while he had the time off; I'm unsure of Dr. Kerrigan's plans."

"From what we've gathered, I don't think either are returning this week, and, honestly Dr. Fowler, we need a face to offer the press junket," Bill explained.

"I'm sorry?" Amy said.

"_Good Day LA_ wants an interview tomorrow, the regional NPR affiliate called for a radio broadcast, _Popular Science_ and _Seed_ have offered us cover stories, PBS is trying to compile a roundtable," Bill said, flicking through a clipboard. "We've also been contacted by a few national networks who are willing to do broadcasts for their primetime shows as well, but that would mean some early mornings and late nights on your part."

"Interviews? You mean I have to go on the radio, television?"

"Your work is going to produce the drug of the century," President Marshall said. "And UCLA is proud to say that we helped foster that discovery, even if our involvement was admittedly minimal. Bill's only been here for the past few weeks, but he's managed to secure several media interviews to promote your work," President Marshall nodded pointedly at Bill Blakeman. "However, we need a spokesperson for this project. A spokesperson for our University. The Nobel conference was just this weekend, so the news is still hot. But we need to jump on these offers while they're coming in."

"In other words, we can't wait until Drs. Kerrigan and Shindek return," Bill explained. "News is about the _now_, so we need you to go and talk to these people to explain the project, maybe namedrop the university once or twice."

"You want me to be an advertisement?" Amy said, unable to disguise her resentment.

"These interviews will primarily be about your work, Dr. Fowler," President Marshall said. Amy didn't appreciate his cool demeanor; he was a salesman, not a scientist. Of course, he was selling $40,000 per year tuitions to bright young minds, but that didn't make him any different than a fast-talker in a cheap suit on a used car lot. Money was the ultimate goal for both.

"And I'm just supposed to casually mention UCLA's backing in every interview?" Amy said, sitting back slightly in her chair.

"Should the opportunity arise, yes," Bill said. "We've even thrown together a fact sheet for you to look over, should you need any numbers for quotation purposes." He extracted a sheet from his clipboard and passed it over to Amy.

"I don't know about this. I'm a scientist, not an actress."

"We don't need you to be an actress. We just need you to be a professional representation of what UCLA can offer the academic community. Obviously we're doing something right, or you wouldn't have won the Nobel in the first place."

Once again, Amy was almost flabbergasted by the president's arrogance. This was _her_ project, not his. She had secured a significant amount of the funding; true, the school had contributed a substantial amount, and she did love working with Pari and Robert in the state-of-the-art facilities. But she was at her best in her lab, not making nice for the media.

"Look, Dr. Fowler, can I call you Amy?" Bill asked informally.

She raised an eyebrow but nodded her consent.

"We know this isn't your thing. You're a scientist, and you probably don't care whether or not UCLA comes out of this looking good. But for you to keep having access to all of those shiny science toys, we need more students to come here. We need to acquire more grants from outside organizations, and we need more donations from alumni. We only get those if we can show them a return on their investment. And curing nicotine addiction? I'd say that's some return."

Marshall leaned back in his chair with his arms over his chest, as if he was evaluating Bill's explanation. He gave Amy an appraising look from top to bottom that she did not welcome in the slightest.

Bill continued. "Academics and administration never jive that well. But this is a chance for us to make that gap a little narrower. Half of these interviews come from science-based media, so they'll be quite familiar with your work and terminology. For some of the more popular, national broadcasts, you might have to simplify your explanations, talk a bit more generally. But in the end, you help us, and we can help you." Bill leaned back and made a 'there you go' gesture with his hands, awaiting Amy's response.

Amy's cheek was going to be raw if she chewed on it anymore. She would be talking about her work. She liked her work, liked explaining what she did. Her personal life was anything but stable, and she didn't have the luxury of being in the midst of an experiment to take her mind off of it. Maybe a few interviews could elevate her glum mood.

"Well, it's not like I've got a project on at the moment, and I've given multiple talks at conventions. I suppose I could answer some questions."

"Wonderful," Marshall said, flicking a finger toward the door.

Bill jumped at his directive, holding out a hand that indicated their meeting was over. Amy rose as well and thanked President Marshall, though what for she was still unsure. Bill began babbling as he ushered her out the door.

The university relations supervisor stuck his head back through the threshold of the President's office at the man's call; Amy saw a pert dip of the head, but couldn't make out what Marshall had said to Bill. It didn't much matter, as Bill had resumed his tangent:

"… and of course you'll be compensated for your time; we wouldn't expect you to do this without— oh, there's April."

A young red headed woman in a professional pants suit sauntered over, bobbing ponytail the only part of her betraying her age. She carried multiple clipboards but juggled them expertly, removing a pen from behind her ear as she made a note on the topmost board.

"So nice to meet you Dr. Fowler," April said, shifting the boards about to shake Amy's hand. "April Barton, university relations intern. I'll be overseeing your interviews."

"You're in good hands, Dr. Fowler," Bill said in an assuring voice. "April's working on her master's in public relations, and has done several summer stints in broadcasting studios and PR firms. She'll make sure you're ready for your debut."

"I was thinking we could draw up an outline and possible hot button points regarding your research, that way you get to talk about the most interesting parts of your study while you're on the air. It's all about timing in these guest broadcasts, and you want to use your words efficiently, being thorough yet not giving too much detail. They'll cut you short if you revert to scientific jargon."

"Um… sure," Amy said, slightly wary of the perky girl. April reminded her of Penny when Penny was tipsy. Only far more organized.

Bill's phone began ringing and he excused himself. "We'll talk again this week," he called out over his shoulder. "April," he said simply, and pointed at Amy, "Marshall would like for her to see the ATMs."

"Check." She shifted clipboards and scribbled another note in an empty corner. "Come on, we can talk more in my office."

"You have an office?" Amy asked. When she did her masters she was lucky to get her own Bunsen burner.

"More of a cubicle, but it sounds awfully professional. I can draw up a preliminary itinerary for your week, and we can go over some basic do's and don't's of speaking on radio and television. Honestly, the only mistake you can make is getting too detailed in your answers. It's not like you're attempting to justify political policy or cover up some sort of scandal."

"As long as I can speak about brain receptors, I'll be fine."

She followed April into the elevator.

"Why do I have to visit a cash dispenser?" Amy asked.

"A what?"

"An ATM? Isn't that what Mr. Blakeman said?"

"Oh, _the _ATMs. No, they're not cash machines. ATM stands for Apparels, Textiles and Merchandising; the ATM majors work with a lot of people doing press for the university. They just don't want you wearing a lab coat covered with brain goo if you're going on camera."

"Perception seems very important to the administration."

"Reputation is everything. It doesn't matter what you are, it's how you're perceived."

"That goes against every scientific principle I know," Amy countered. "If we registered information without double checking the process, without seeing how something _really is_, we would get the wrong results. Science is all about reliable replicability."

"Well, not so much with media studies," April confessed. "You can be an inarticulate bubble in real life, but if you smile for the camera and say a few nice words about helping the world, they'll love you."

This didn't make Amy feel any better.

_**So... what does this university directive mean? Will this further affect the Shamy? Can Amy cope with the pressure? Also: "I'm a scientist. Not an actress." Come on, who could resist that irony? Would love to hear from you!**_


	5. Guy Talk

_**Alrighty... So, this is shorter. But we gotta hear how our ShellyBean's feeling, right? Because it's so short, expect a quicker update! Haaalaaaah back peeps! Don't own in. If I did, I'd be at ComicCon with Prady and Lorre. Just saying. Enjoy!**_

"As always, I think you're blowing things way out of proportion," Leonard returned to his laptop, hastily completing an order for a new hydraulic belt. The belt on his backup generator was cracking, and an experimental physicist without power was basically Newton. "Need I remind you of the cat accumulation incident?"

"I don't see how this concerns you," Sheldon responded.

"Then why did you bring it up in the first place?"

"I—" Sheldon stared into his mug, still upset despite his hot beverage. "I'm… perplexed."

"Perplexed?" Leonard prompted.

"When you began dating Penny, and your natural insecurities and defects rendered you jealous, how did you cope?"

Leonard eyed Sheldon incredulously. "Defects aside, it wasn't something that I came to terms with over night. Is that what this is about? You're jealous of Amy because she won the Nobel?"

"Lord, no!"

"Then I don't understand."

"That's not surprising." Sheldon sat heavily in his spot and leaned forward, elbows perched on bent knees, chin resting on folded hands. "I think Amy has strayed beyond the parameters of our relationship agreement."

"What do you mean, 'strayed beyond the parameters?' I've 'strayed beyond the parameters' of our Roommate Agreement plenty of times."

"And you received a number of reprimands. I mean, that is, I believe… Amy might have engaged… uhm, cheated on me."

Leonard practically started laughing. "What?! Amy? Amy Farrah Fowler?"

"Is there another 'Amy' that I'm intimately associated with?"

"Sheldon, you can't be serious."

"I'm completely serious. Why would I be talking to you about this if I wasn't serious?"

"It's just that… it's Amy."

"…"

"Amy Farrah Fowler."

"…"

"The woman who has stuck it out with you for three years. The woman who, weirdly, thinks your quirks just make her love you more. The woman who basically broke Penny's nose to defend your honor, that Amy."

"Making a point through implication usually works in entertainment forms, but, as I'm still not a socially interactive expert, I'm going to need you to, as the provincial slang would suggest, spell it out."

Leonard rolled his eyes in frustration. "You remember the last time we talked about women? How Amy was trying to increase your feelings for her by making you happy?"

"Yes."

"How's that going for you?"

"She hasn't stopped. And I'm not unhappy," Sheldon admitted.

"So you mean to say she's been doing lots of things to make you happy?"

"Yes."

"And what have you done for her in return?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you made any special efforts to return her affections?"

Sheldon scoffed. " 'Affections' is such a hippie-dippy word."

"Fine. Have you reciprocated in acts of, I don't know, niceness?"

"Possibly…" Sheldon said, eyes far away in thought.

"Like what?"

"Well, I made her my emergency contact at the University."

"No wonder I haven't been getting as many phone calls," Leonard muttered to himself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"And there was… an incident… that is, do you remember when we were playing D&D with the girls?"

"Sure, I feel like we made a small step for all nerd-kind that night."

Sheldon gave Leonard a pointed look. "Regardless, the events of the night upset Amy, and when I went to speak with her, we engaged in… that is, we came to an understanding about…" Sheldon paused, unwilling to divulge more than necessary. "Let's just say Amy and I made yet another step forward in the understanding of our relationship."

"And I'm to expect no details?"

"Correct. That's a private matter, between myself and Amy."

"So you're still referring to yourselves as a couple?"

"Of course."

"Which directly contradicts what you were saying to me not five minutes ago, when you said you were going to break up with her. Seems like you're not positive you want to do that."

"But she—"

"I think she loves you, man."

Sheldon sat back in his seat, face scrunched in uncomprehending befuddlement. "Excuse me?"

"That's the only reason I can think of her staying around this long. And the cheating thing? She would never. Ever. It's inconceivable, but the admiration thing only goes so far."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, your assistant, Alex, she admires your work. She'll stick around until she realizes you're not going to give her any more future work opportunities."

"As if I would give any of my work-related problems to Alex. She doesn't even have a doctorate."

"Anyway, Amy probably admired you in the beginning. For…" Leonard waved a hand in Sheldon's direction. "Honestly, I don't know what for. You're smart, Sheldon, but she could have a lot more with someone else. Maybe not someone as smart as you, but she could be happy."

"I still don't see your point."

"The only reason people keep doing stuff they don't like to do, or purposefully put themselves in situations where they aren't as happy as they could be, is because they're willing to do it for someone else. Initially, it might stem from admiration, or because they can get something out of it in the long run. Amy went on a date with you to get her mother off of her back. Three years later, and she's still here. What does that say to you?"

"It doesn't _say _anything."

"Don't read her words, read her actions, Sheldon."

"That's illogical. And silly."

"Then why are you so concerned about it?" Leonard asked seriously.

Sheldon had no answer, opting to pick up a misplaced comic book from the cluttered coffee table. Leonard had him; and he rarely had Sheldon. The cross examination, the scrutiny of his _own_ illogical actions was more that the mighty Sheldor could bare. Leonard both loved and hated himself for having the upper hand.

"Look Sheldon, all I'm saying is, if you had come across someone illogical, and silly, and perplexing three years ago, you wouldn't have cared how to go about it. You would have severed all ties of communication and not given the matter a second thought."

Sheldon looked up from his comic book.

"I can't say it definitely, but I think she loves you. From what Penny tells me, all signs point to that. And, as well as I know you, I'd say those feelings aren't wholly unreciprocated."

Sheldon rose suddenly, crossing to the kitchen. He disposed of the tea bag, and hit the knob on the faucet. A steady stream of water gushed out, and he rotated the mug carefully under the deluge. He didn't refute Leonard, but he didn't respond, either.

"You think she's cheating on you with other guys?" Leonard asked.

Sheldon put his arms down on the sides of the sink. "I don't know what I think."

"Did you talk to her about it?"

"She said she didn't cheat on me."

"Why don't you believe her?"

"Because I'm not going to give her what other people can. Because she's lied to me before. And because she came home with another man's hotel room number on her hand."

"The first reason is your own problem. The second, because she was trying to protect you from your own professional jealousy. And the third is circumstantial evidence at best."

"Leonard, if it walks like a duck—"

"It could be a drunk Raj."

"And quacks like a duck—"

"It could be any number of aqueous ornithological species with similar vocal chord structures."

"And swims like a duck—"

"It could be Ryan Lochte."

"Who?"

"Never mind. The point, Sheldon, is that you're looking for an excuse to be mad at her because you've come to an impasse. Three years in, and something's gotta give."

"What does that mean? I'm no different now than I was three years ago," he insisted.

"Keep telling yourself that," Leonard mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Sheldon, if you're really worried about other guys hitting on Amy, then that's something you're going to have to work out for yourself. I'm still dealing with it. Everywhere Penny goes, she gets hit on, even if I'm standing right there. But I talked with her, and she assured me that she's not going to stray. She loves me, and I have to trust her enough to believe that she's not going to cheat on me _because_ she loves me."

Sheldon snorted. "If _love_ is all you've got to go on, then I don't think your advice is going to do me much good. I have a legally binding document validating our interactions, and I'm still not sure about her."

"It can't be a bad thing that your girlfriend loves you," Leonard argued.

"She's never said she does."

"Maybe that's because you shoot down any and all emotional talk, not just between you and Amy, but around our entire group every time you get the chance! She probably thinks you'll end the relationship if she tells you prematurely."

Sheldon paused. "So, you're saying it's a _good_ thing that she might love me? That she'll keep within the directives of the relationship agreement because of something as fickle as an emotion?"

"To most people, having their girlfriend love them after three years would be a happy event."

Leonard rolled his eyes at Sheldon as he thumbed through the comic.

"Then again, you're not most people."

**_Leonard and Penny are all the time acting as sounding boards for those two... go ahead and give Penny a doctorate in phsychology or something. Or, as Sheldon would say, 'hokum'. Would love a quick review of these two, caught in a bad bromance, if you feel so inclined. Peace, love, and puppies, because who doesn't like puppies?_**


	6. DJs, Sheldon, and the Girl Code

_**Because yesterday's was so short, and I got further on this than I had anticipated: Kapow! Two updates in two days. A huge thanks to all who are reviewing and following. It totally makes all the writing worth it :) Don't own it. LORRE AND PRADY AND CBS... will always be richer than me. Enjoy!**_

Amy was sitting in an awkward swivel chair with large black earphones on her head. They pressed into the sides of her skull, causing the stems of her glasses to jut uncomfortably into the skin just above her ears. The ATMs had dressed her in similar attire to what she had donned at the awards ceremony; an outfit much too polished considering she wasn't even on camera.

April tapped the glass from the recording booth and gave her a thumbs up. She also mouthed 'talk slow', as their practice interviews had found Amy rattling off science facts at ninety to nothing. When she got nervous, her speech accelerated, and that wasn't going to transfer well when she was trying to explain neurobiology to laymen.

"So we'll be back from commercial in sixty seconds. Are you ready?" the host, Jeff, asked her amiably.

Amy nodded her assent.

"You'll have to vocalize once we're on air. The viewers can't hear a nod," he teased.

"I understand. Just a bit nervous, I suppose."

"Don't be. You have an excellent speaking voice. And I'll guide you along with the questions. And congratulations on your work. That's a real accomplishment."

Amy turned sideways at another tap on the glass. This time, it was Jeff's producer, holding up an open hand that began the count down at five, four, three, two….

"And we're back to N-P-R's noonday news hour," Jeff said softly. "Joining me in the studio is Dr. Amy Farrah Fowler. Dr. Fowler is just back from Stockholm, having received the Nobel Prize in Physiology for her work on addiction in primates. The success of her team has led to what some scientific journals are calling the greatest neurochemical breakthrough of the 21st century. Dr. Fowler, how do you respond to praise like that?"

Amy opened her mouth but no sound came out. She turned quickly to April in the booth, who was grinning, making a rolling motion with her hands. 'Spit something out,' she mimed, but her reassuring smile let Amy know she was not under a lot of pressure. It was just a conversation. She could hold her own in a simple conversation.

"Gratefully, obviously. UCLA has provided myself and the team with such a wonderful work environment, and this outcome was so much more than we expected."

"You mean, you didn't go in with certain expectations?"

"Every scientist goes in with expectations, not that those expectations are solid, or unyielding. They're called hypotheses. But once you get so attached to your hypothesis that you start misreading information, that's when it can all go downhill. We began this experiment years ago, intending to find out as much about addiction in the human brain as we possibly could. I can only hope that we accomplished that."

And accomplish she did. Jeff was an amazing interviewer. He had completed a Masters in biological sciences, and had a degree in psychology as well as communication studies. An all-rounder on-air, he was well versed in the literature of her experiment. With the network of NPR marketing to a "certain" demographic, Amy was able to revel in the jargon of her occupation a bit more than April had suggested she do; Jeff didn't ask for much more elaboration on terminology. Perhaps April underestimated the intelligences of their radio audience. Or perhaps Mr. Bill Blakeman had made her more cautious than necessary. Either way, the interview was a delightful distraction, and before she new it, her time was up.

"We're back in ninety seconds, Jeff," the producer said.

Amy shook Jeff's hand respectfully and removed her headphones.

"You were wonderful. Thanks for coming by on such short notice," Jeff said.

"Of course. Thank you for making my first interviewing experience so pleasurable."

"You're a natural. We'll have to have you back as a consultant."

Amy brightened, but merely waved in response, stepping outside the booth to meet up with April.

"Perfect. Couldn't have said it better myself. Was a little lost when you started in on the response times of schizo-inhibited nicotine reductionaries, but all in all, not bad for your first broadcast."

"Thanks, it was surprisingly enjoyable."

"Good to hear. Now, this was the only interview we could secure for the day, as we weren't sure you'd agree to it. But you have three more tomorrow, starting with _Good Day LA _in the morning."

"Okay."

"You'll need to be at the studio at 6 a.m.."

"I'm sorry?" Amy asked.

"I know it's early, but they need you there in plenty of time for prep. Because yours is such a long programming block, they can't be left in the lurch; plus you're on at seven. It's a relatively early slot, but no press is bad press."

Amy blew a stray tendril out of her face. This curly hair thing the ATMs were so fond of certainly did not do well for her glasses. Fly-aways kept getting attached to her frames.

"UCLA will send a car for you to your apartment around five, that way they can prep you."

"Gosh, this is sounding like I'm walking on a red carpet, not giving a science interview."

"This is for _Los Angeles_," April emphasized. "It's a different world. You can be as charming as you want on the radio, but you've got to _look_ charming once you're on televised air. Don't worry, I'll be with you the whole time. The questions, unfortunately, won't be as detailed tomorrow. They're just morning show hosts, not biology specialists employed by a reputed broadcaster."

"Understood," Amy said.

"You're free for the rest of the day, though. Would you like us to drop you back at your apartment?" April said, indicating the driver.

"No, that's alright." Amy was, ironically, tired of being the University monkey for the day. The debriefing hadn't been unbearable, but she had more pressing personal issues to tackle. "I'll just take my car. I'll see you in the morning."

"Bright and early!" April waved, a bit too chipper for Amy's liking.

Amy dug through her purse and found her cell.

_Still on for celebrating 2nite?_

She clambered into her car and was on the road before she got a response. Pulling into a Quick-Mart, she noticed Penny's reply.

_Get ready 4 FUN!_

"Wise of me to stop for alcohol," she said, and turned off her engine.

* * *

Amy didn't bother changing out of her radio interview clothes. April had assured her that the pieces were hers to keep, and that the ATMs preferred their subjects take the materials. That way they could order new fabric for their departmental closet.

Amy contemplated the benefits of spending money on cambric vs. spending it on preservation chemicals. She thought she knew which was more worthy, yet every department felt that way about their equipment. Whereas hers consisted of tweezers and body parts, theirs consisted of fabric sheers and threaded needles. Perhaps they were both important in the grand scheme of things.

She eyed her interview wear, the ruffled white-button up tucked primly into a grey pencil skirt. And those idiotic heels that society (including Penny) insisted were the definition of 'professional'. She had looked up 'professional' in the _OED_. Nowhere did it say that footwear designed to cripple you was considered professional. Before she could think about it further, she removed her heels and carried them in her free left hand, the bottle of white Penny had requested tucked snugly under her right shoulder.

Amy turned the corner to the second landing of Los Robles before careening into a tenant.

"Oh I'm sorry—"

"Pardon me—"

Sheldon shifted uneasily on the stairwell, doing his best to distance himself from her in the confined passageway.

Amy didn't know if she should speak first. She had wanted to talk to him, needed this confrontation. And now that it was here, she did little more than stare at her hose-covered toes.

"You're not wearing shoes," Sheldon said.

"They were inhibiting blood circulation," Amy said.

"Why would you wear those impracticalities in the first place?"

"I'm doing interviews for the University. Call it a dress code mandate."

"You could always refuse."

"I'd rather the world be more knowledgeable about the research. If heels are the price I have to pay, then so be it."

Sheldon nodded. "You look—"

Amy raised her head to meet his eyes, which were currently engaged in a review of her person. Sheldon tilted his head inquisitively when he reached her face, glasses-free and undoubtedly nervous.

"—different."

"Again, interview mandate," she said, anxiously pulling at her hemline.

"I was… hoping to speak with you today."

"As was I."

"Were you coming to see me?" he asked sheepishly.

"I was going to, but then I realized it was comic book night."

"It is. Wolowitz is picking me up now."

"And Leonard?"

"Working late."

"Which would explain Wolowitz's driving."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Then why are you here?" Sheldon asked.

Amy revealed the wine bottle under her arm.

"Penny wanted to celebrate the win with the girls."

"As she should. Does she realize the magnitude of your award?"

"Doubtful, but it's a nice gesture all the same."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Amy didn't continue up the stairs, and Sheldon didn't continue his descent. They waited awkwardly on the landing, the weighted moment launched further into the realm of discomfort due to limited space. Amy felt the exposed brick of the stairwell closing in on them. She shifted her weight back and forth to get the blood flowing back to her toes, and caught Sheldon's attentive stare on her action.

"Maybe we could talk tomorrow?" Amy asked.

"Certainly," Sheldon said.

"I'll, um, I'll call you."

"Please do," Sheldon said, sidestepping her on the landing. It was nearly 6:07. He was going to be late for comic book night, and she knew how bothersome that would be for him. He took two steps down before speaking. He didn't turn his head to face her, but she heard the words all the same.

"Perhaps I overreacted at your apartment the other night."

"No… I, it's understandable," she said. "I certainly did, and had no right to… to hit you," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he said continuing down the steps. He turned back toward her once he reached the lower landing. "I should say, I do want to see you tomorrow. I don't feel it's obligatory in any way. There are things I wish to…" his quick inhale and sigh had her teeth fidgeting with her lower lip. Under his scrutiny, she didn't know whether to feel offended, exposed, or cherished. "… discuss," he finished, eyes making another sweep of her figure.

"Tomorrow," Amy said, as Sheldon continued down the stairs. She parked it on the second floor landing. If Howard was driving, surely Bernadette would be right behind her for their celebratory girls night.

* * *

Amy had already been drunk once this week, and she wasn't looking to get sloshed again. Especially due to her multiple interviews the following day. She was, as April kept needlessly reminding her, the face of the University; at least for the next two to three weeks. So being chaperone for her own Nobel-winning-celebratory-celebration was just fine with her. Penny, with her high tolerance built up since the age of fourteen, was already on her fourth cocktail, yet surprisingly coherent. Bernadette, on the other hand, with her tiny body mass, was only two drinks down and nearly three sheets to the wind.

"Weeeeee!" Bernadette depressed the latch on the side of her chair, sinking slowly and then repositioning herself so as to enjoy the ride once more. Amy was giggly and Penny was authoritative, deftly spurning male advances on behalf of all three women. Every one of them had been approached that night, but only Bernadette could ward away the gentlemen with a flash of her finger. Amy and Penny were left to fend for themselves.

"I thought you said this wasn't a singles bar," Amy said.

"It's not. We're just too hot for our own good," Penny responded. "Seriously, Ames, your outfit is great."

"My metatarsals disagree."

"Your who?"

"Never mind."

"So, what if I told you I'm looking for a little sciency help?" Penny said, deftly plucking a cherry from its stem.

"I'd say you're in the ideal situation, seeing as your entire friend group is comprised of scientists. Although, it might be best not to refer to the field as 'sciency'."

"I'll be sure to remember that," she said, sipping at her Cosmo.

"What type of help do you require?"

"Believe it or not, I'm auditioning for a part as a research assistant in a lab. It's a short film about biological warfare."

"That would be Bernadette's area of expertise, I think," Amy said.

"Bernadette?"

"I'd love to help you out Penny, but I've been working awful hours at work. This is the first night I've not been at the lab in months."

"Has Howard chipped in on some of the domestic responsibilities?" Amy asked.

"Ever since I hid his Xbox, he knows when I mean business. I'm sure Amy could help you, Penny."

"It's really just pronouncing some big words, and figuring out if I need to sound excited or happy or sad or scared when I start rattling off all of these chemical names."

"I'd be happy to lend my assistance, bestie," Amy said. "I don't have to be in the lab, and these interview things only seem to happen during the day. I can come over and we can go over the script before your audition."

"Really?! Oh, that is going to be great, thanks Amy! Looks like I've got one leg up on the rest of the candidates."

"What are you planning on wearing? I could always lend you one of my lab coats."

"A clean one?" Penny asked cautiously.

"_Yes_, a clean one."

"I don't know… they won't see my best feature."

"Penny, I'm assuming a lab assistant's best feature is her mind. Go in with your hair back, a pencil in your pocket, and actually knowing how to pronounce the words in the script, and you'll have two legs up on the competition."

"I don't know."

"Come on," Amy encouraged. "Get into character!"

"Right!" Bernadette said. "It's not about Penny and her cool features. It's about this lab scientist and her love of biological microorganisms!"

"I suppose. I've been at this for six years, I guess I've got to change something."

The ladies continued to chat the night away, Amy and Bernadette crashing much earlier than Penny. The ladies put on cheery, flirtatious grins as a group of gentleman outside the bar hailed a cab for them.

"I'll never get used to that," Amy said.

"What?" Bernadette asked.

"Those guys. Smiling. And talking to us. Whenever you two are around I feel like I get the VIP treatment."

"You've got to stop being so down on yourself, Ames," Penny interjected. "It's not just us. You're basically in trouble with your boyfriend because other guys keep flirting with you."

"That's not what they're doing. I merely talk to other men, usually about professional things. How is that flirting?"

"There's a delicate line between social flirting and professional conversation," Bernadette said. "You may not intend for the conversation to be taken that way, but other men might see your kind nature and keen wit as flirtatious sensibilities."

"So I can't be congenial toward someone without running the risk of flirting?"

"It is a cross we all must bear," Penny said with a bob of the head. "At least until you get a ring on it," she continued, jabbing Bernadette good-naturedly with her elbow.

"I'm not concerned with other men," Amy asserted. "I'm concerned with Sheldon, and the fact that I might have betrayed his trust."

"I can tell you from experience, most guys don't like it when girls lie to them. _Especially_ if there's another guy involved."

"But there wasn't another guy involved!" Amy said.

"Doesn't matter. We just went over this," Penny said. "You didn't have to be flirting, but if you lie about _leaving the country_ then you could very well lie about something like hanging with other men. We all know Sheldon's got insecurity issues. This only exacerbated them."

"Awe, Penny, you used 'exacerbated'! I'm glad you've been reading the Word-of-the-Day calendar I gave you," Bernadette squeaked. She was leaning against the far cab window, mouth agog and beginning the descent into slumber. Amy nearly made Penny pick her up off the windowsill of the cab. She was no mysophobe, but even she recognized the lack of cleanliness in late-night public transport.

"Vocabulary lessons aside, I know I was wrong in keeping this from Sheldon. And I've just got to make up for it. All the stuff I did with the Relationship Agreement didn't go over well at all, so I've got to think up something amazing for his birthday."

"His birthday?" Penny asked.

"Yeah, it's in about two weeks. Did you forget?"

"No," Penny snorted.

Amy raised a brow.

"Of course I forgot. Sheldon doesn't just shout these things from the rooftops."

"True," Amy admitted. "The only reason I have it written down is because he gave me that medical form with all of his information on it. I didn't even give him anything the first year we were seeing each other."

"Do you have something in mind?" Penny asked.

"Several options that I've been planning for a while, but I know that buying him things won't make him forgive me."

"You'd be surprised what a little bribery can do. I seem to recall a certain princess who practically melted into goo when presented with a tiara."

"Touche. But I'm not looking to buy his good favor. I want to do something special for him, because he's special to me. Like I said, I've got a few ideas rolling around, but if you could maybe talk to Leonard and see if Sheldon's mentioned anything specific. It doesn't have to be a thing he wants. It could be the most mundane thing he mentioned, recently or a while ago—"

"I guarantee you, Sheldon's mentioned plenty of mundane things in his life time."

"You know what I mean, Penny."

"Sure, sure. You're in hot water with your man. Consider it my congratulatory gift to you."

"Wasn't that what this outing was supposed to be? A night of conviviality and socialization?"

"You had one drink and we didn't do anything stupid. This was no celebration according to my standards," Penny said.

"If you say so. But I appreciate your help with Sheldon's birthday. I just don't… I don't want to mess this up, too."

"Amy, you haven't messed anything up with Sheldon. Honestly, it's just coming to a head. Three years with him and something had to happen. Think of it this way," she said, as the pair scrambled out of the cab at Amy's apartment. "It's better to have happened now than further down the road. He's dealing with his crappy issues and the sooner he faces them, the sooner he gets over them. If he can't handle another man even _talking_ to you, then that's his problem, not yours."

Amy wasn't sure that was the root cause of the problems with Sheldon. Her opportunities had been myriad and temporally apropos, socially and professionally. Yet Sheldon's life had not had the same trajectory. She wondered if Penny downplayed his 'issues,' which were actual and manifested as debilitating symptoms. As a scientist, she was trained to study cause and effect. Sheldon's phobias rendered him incapable of dealing with certain situations unless he responded in specific ways, a symptom emanating from a psychological tick within. Before she went to Freudian in her thinking, Amy helped Penny jostle the third in the trio awake and bid goodnight to Bernadette. She thanked her bestie for the advice and exited the cab roughly ten minutes later, digging in her purse for her phone as she trudged up her apartment stairs.

Worrying her lower lip in well, _worry_, she slid the icon across the bottom of the screen and typed a message to Sheldon. She was so worked up she didn't even spell-check it, but felt immensely better at his response:

_Indeed. We do need to talk. 7 pm at your apartment will suffice. I hope your REM cycles are satisfactory._

**_So many things are happening! And will happen! And should happen! Guesses? Theories? Would love to hear from you :)_**


	7. Covergirl

_**So, cool story. I finished the WHOLE thing the other night, and, because if the thing rests on my desktop over time, I feel like there's a load pressing down on my chest like a stone, slowly crushing my soul. So, in an effort to relieve myself of said load, we're looking at two chapters a day here, people. Even though I don't own it. And I never will. *tears* Enjoy :)**_

The next day proved to be one of the toughest days of Amy's life. It wasn't even the potentially paradigm-altering conversation she was supposed to be having with Sheldon that night, or the possibility that she might have screwed things royally with her boyfriend, or that her best friend was starting to give her these knowing looks that made her squirm like a specimen on a slide. No. It was the _smiling_.

Not only did she feel like a chipmunk hoarding for winter during the majority of her interviews, but her masseter muscles were on fire by the end of the day.

"That was great," April would say, "But could you smile a little more in the next interview? The camera wants viewers, and the way to get them is with open facial expressions."

Or, as Penny would say,_ invite them into your world_, Amy thought. But in the skirts the ATMs had her wearing, no way would she be uncrossing her legs, let alone opening them to the viewers. So, the smiling would have to suffice.

The interview with _Good Day LA _had left her nearly nauseous from its banality. The interviewers asked her very vague, general questions about the 'overall impact' and 'potential repercussions' of her study. Not one mention of neurons, let alone the nucleus accumbens or basic dopamine release. Amy had to bite her tongue on more than one occasion to keep herself from sounding snarky; the hosts were nice, cordial people. The kind you wouldn't mind welcoming into your home on a daily basis to talk about barbeque recipes, or the safety mechanisms on newly released toddler toys. They were not, however, the type of people one would employ for rigorous scientific debate.

"… and then we would use the pipette to withdraw the sample containing the—"

"The pipette? That's the one that looks like a tiny turkey baster, am I right Susan?"

"That's what I thought, Will!"

The two tilted their heads back and laughed, which Amy found wholly disconcerting. How was fashioning slide samples for analysis considered amusing?

"And that's all we have time for this morning," Susan said, ivory tooth enamel gleaming almost unnaturally toward the camera. "We want to thank our guest, Dr. Fewler, for being here this morning."

"Next up," Will continued, "we're joined by our celeb correspondent Brandi Dupree, who has the latest update on Kim and Kanye's brand new baby girl."

"And we're out!" the EP said. "Back in three."

"Damn, I hope I've got time for a smoke." With that, Susan ran out of the studio.

Amy had to physically restrain herself from an eye roll at the now very-much-impolite hosting pair. She'd just won the flipping NOBEL prize on curing nicotine addiction, and the host was popping out for a cigarette. The irony was almost sickening.

April zipped towards Amy and helped extract her from the mess of wires that was her microphone. She gave her a sympathetic look, escorting her out of the studio and into the hallway.

"That was awful," Amy said.

"Yes, well, it could have gone better."

"I wasn't any more technical than yesterday at the radio station!"

"Demos, Amy. NPR against _Good Day LA_? Why do you think they blocked you in with the Kardashian bit? They're hoping your intro will garner views from people who don't want to miss the North West baby story."

"Who's Kardashian?"

April stopped abruptly. "You know what, it's not important," she said, with a disbelieving shake of the head. "I'm actually quite envious that you _don't _know who that is. Come on, back to the car."

"Do I have to be on camera again?" Amy asked.

"Yes. You can do this, you're a natural when you're in your comfort zone."

"If that interview was the North Pole, then my comfort zone is Antarctica. I'm not great at social situations, but even I know that was bad."

"Then there's only room to improve."

"Are you always this optimistic?" Amy asked, quirking her head at the younger woman.

"People will think your interview was bad for all of ten seconds, and then they'll be cooing and cawing over a baby who's done nothing but be born. I think we're in the clear." April ticked a box on one of her clipboards. "I've already messaged Mr. Blakeman, to let him know we're working on it. The _Seed_ offices expect us in twenty, so that's where we're heading."

"What's seed?"

"_Seed_? It's a fairly prominent science magazine," April explained. "I thought you'd know about it."

"Hmm. I've never seen any at the newsstands."

"Oh! It's a webmag. I don't know if you've noticed, but daily papers are practically obsolete, and so are specialty mags. In order to stay alive, they've moved online, or else they'll have to publish quarterly. They do plenty of interviews, so once again, free reign with the vocabulary! They'll have the concept for the shoot all set up after you speak with their feature writer."

"Shoot? Like, a photo shoot?!"

"Of course. Pictures accompanying stories make more people read the text over 75% of the time. The more text, the more pictures they need. They're running the Nobel topic as their primary story for the next issue, so they've got to have a face for the piece."

"But, can't they just put in something generic? Like a brain, or a microscope? I've never been one for photos."

"You were on camera this morning!"

"Yes, and see how well that went?" Amy defended. "I'm serious, when I was younger, I'd duck because I thought the flash would cause undue damage to my retinas. Unfortunately, it's a habit that stuck with me through the years."

"You'd duck? Like, fall to the ground?"

"I was down like a veteran near a backfiring car. I know it's a psychosomatic reaction, but I can't help it."

"Can't you at least try? These people are used to profiling scientists. They're not going to ask you to be a model."

"I suppose. But I'm not lying about this phobia. I was tested for epilepsy twice because of those cameras."

* * *

_It could have been worse_. That seemed to be Amy's mantra for the week. Her anxiety level in Stockholm had been staggering: the stress of jet lag; Sheldon's knowledge of her deception; the mandate to work the press circuit; Amy never thought it would go so… smoothly.

She experienced an underwhelming contentment during the interview; the interviewer, Christine, was well-versed not only in scientific speak, but also in Amy's methodology. A rotund woman in her early fifties, she'd read the three papers that Shindek, Kerrigan and Amy had published, and had devoted significant time to examining the results of the study. She was a smooth communicator; her fingers flew as she scrawled in shorthand despite the tape recorder they had been using for the past 45 minutes. She transitioned from one question to the next with ease, Amy verbally chronicling her experiment from its genesis to projected after effects. The interview with Christine was more of a conversation, which was far more to Amy's liking than the train wreck that was _Good Day LA_. Amy rose steadily from the interview chair, issuing a silent _thank you_ for competent journalists.

"Is there an email, or a number I can reach you at, should I have any follow-up questions?" Christine asked.

"Sure, thing!" April interrupted, distributing a card with a flourish.

"What's that?" Amy asked.

"Your card," April said.

"I have a card?"

"You have a card."

"Why do I have a card?"

"You just won the Nobel. I think the real question is, why _didn't_ you have a card?" Christine joked.

Amy and April thanked Christine and departed swiftly; this next part was the bit Amy was dreading.

April escorted Amy toward a man wearing a plaid vest, dark-wash jeans, and a scarf (Amy was befuddled by the scarf as the man was indoors with climate control… and they were in southern California). His green undershirt seemed meticulously chosen to match the green of his eyes, and the attempt at five-o'clock shadow registered more as carefully manicured eleven o'clock full coverage. These were her deductions. Amy's conclusion: the man really emphasized the look. She exhaled heavily, her shoulders drooping even more than usual.

"You must be Dr. Fowler," the man said warmly. He took Amy's extended hand. "I'm Mark Scott, and I'll be doing the shoot today. Let me take you back to the set up so I can explain what we're going for."

April's phone started ringing just as Mark was walking away.

"Go on," she said, shooing Amy in Mark's direction. "He won't bite, and I've got to take this."

Amy scuttled through a doorway, quick to dismiss the entire thing, until she walked directly onto an intricately detailed replica of her lab. _Her lab_… how she missed it. It didn't have the lingering smell of primate tranquilizers, but it was the most comfortable she had felt in hours.

"Is it right?" Mark asked critically, arms crossed over his chest. "I wanted it down to the exact detail, thought it would make for a great spread."

"How did you—"

"We sent ahead some interns who got pictures of the place," Mark explained. "I hope that's alright? Our contacts at the university, I think it was Mr. Blakeman, said it was fine."

"Oh, yes well, I mean, it's alright. The experiment was complete, and it's technically university property. They can let whoever they choose into the building."

"I'm sensing a little hostility," Mark smiled.

"No, not hostile! It's just… it's my lab. I spend more time there than I do at my home. Walking in here, seeing it after being away for two weeks, I just got a bit… protective."

"I felt the same way about my lab," Mark said.

"Your lab? Like, you darkroom?"

"No, my lab," Mark reiterated. "Before I took to scientific photography, I was a marine biologist. California, best state for it and all, with the coastline. I was really into genome-mapping within symbiotic species development on the Pacific Rim, and much of my research could be emphasized or highlighted in journals when accompanied with visuals. So, I got into scientific photography, microorganisms, cellular-level photographs. I don't frequently do shoots that center on the researcher," he said, eyeing her as Marshall had done in the President's office earlier that week.

But his stare wasn't critical; it was inquisitive, a researcher's eye. She got that look whenever she read over her results; it was something she could relate to.

"But after hearing you on NPR yesterday, I knew I could construct something around you. You're obviously very passionate about your research. And the best place to explore that passion, to let it grow, is in your lab," he said, gesturing toward the sound stage.

Amy took another look at the set, a grin spreading despite her fear of cameras.

"So, are you up for it?" Mark asked.

"I guess," Amy said. "I have to admit, I'm a little camera shy."

Mark chuckled good-naturedly. "I've got a trick for that. You won't be uncomfortable. And if you ever are, just let me know and we'll take a break. We've got plenty of time."

Amy noticed a snapping sound from across the way, another sharply dressed man and woman clicking their fingers at her and Mark.

"Oh, that's your cue," Mark said.

"What?"

"Hair and makeup," he explained, the two hyena-like stylists eyeing her like a wounded baby antelope. They loped over and began circling her.

"Just breathe and remember, they're not going to hurt you," Mark joked. "Play nice you two," he said, and walked over to check the set a final time.

"Hi," Amy said awkwardly to the stylists. "I'm Dr. Amy Farrah Fow—"

"Shush!" the man said. "You are not zis Foluh, you are… ze canvas!"

"Oi!" the woman agreed. "We shall make you ze most exzemplary image of ze scientist, _par excellance_!"

And with a flurry of French-tinted dialogue, a hair dryer, and enough eyeliner to make a drag queen look twice, the pair pounced on the poor naïveté of Amy Farrah Fowler.

* * *

Once again, it could have been worse. She was certainly not comfortable, all eyes on her as she stood, pretending to look through a microscope. Being in a replica of her own lab helped, but the camera filters and interruptions from Latetia and Claude, the French stylists commissioned for this little foray into the personal ruminations of a real-life researcher, were not helping Amy with her confidence-lacking issue. Mark was being as conciliatory as he could, under the circumstances, but they were running short on time and Amy was still anything but natural in front of the camera. Thankfully, she had yet to fall to the ground from a wayward flash.

"Just tilt your shoulders a little more, there, good…" Mark said, shooting as Amy pretended to pipette some water from a glass beaker. "How much longer do we have, April?"

"Got a phone interview with the _Times_ at four," she replied, thumbs racing across her smart phone.

Mark's attention returned to Amy, who was undeniably frazzled. The flashes hadn't rendered her faint or unconscious; _yet_, she kept thinking. But the form-fitting 'lab coat' (if one dared call it that) and tousled, impractical hair coupled with the most makeup she'd ever worn in her life had her grumpy and disappointed. At herself and the whole silly situation. She kept blowing her hair out of her face.

She pointedly said to Claude, "What scientist in their right mind would leave their hair this… big… when working in the laboratory?"

He'd silenced her with a zip and a spritz of hairspray and shooed her onto the set.

"How you doing Dr. Fowler?" Mark asked, stepping out from behind the camera.

"I feel about as far away from 'Dr. Fowler' as I've ever felt," she admitted. "This is just foreign. I'm a scientist, not a model."

"But there are plenty of science models!" Mark reiterated. "Helical DNA strands, life-size molecular apparatuses, not to mention detachable plastic molds of brains with labeled parts."

"That different," Amy scoffed. "Those aren't people. Models are people."

Mark scoffed. "Some of the best pictures of Marie Curie were taken while she was working in her lab. Those pictures inspired a generation of scientists, women and girls who didn't have an example. She wasn't just a chemist. She was a model. A _role_ model. And you could be, too."

Amy had never considered what the shoot could do for other people. The article, yes. She had explained herself to Christine, had talked about the aftereffects of her research, what types of drugs could be produced for the population at large with her findings. But this was bigger than one study. This wasn't just about a landmark medication; _Seed_ was going for pathos, not logos. An emotional appeal to the readers, to show that you could do brilliant things despite gender or age or social incompetence. So she would try again.

"Alright," Amy said. "Let's continue."

"Good," Mark said. "If all else fails, Amy, just think of something that makes you happy. Chin up, shoulders back, microscope focused. I want to see how science makes you smile."

The props people came in and laid a fake brain before her, passed her a scalpel, and retreated beyond the borders of her laboratory set. How did science make her smile? By extracting tumors and measuring quantities and postulating hypotheses and debating outcomes with Sheldon at her lab lunches… Sheldon… perched at the corner of the lab's countertop, Tupperware lunch safely separated from the chemicals.

She grinned to herself and just started moving around, grabbing this and that like she would have any other day in her lab. She shut out the light filters, the insane French stylists, April busily scheduling on her phone, and even Mark, the click of the camera following her as she moved about the area. She stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth as she sliced through the fake brain, releasing a slight chuckle as she imagined the tumor waiting before her. She turned to the imaginary Sheldon to display her findings, then brought the hand with the scalpel up near her face, perching her elbow on the opposite arm she wrapped across her torso.

She was contemplating the brain, from which angle to attack it next, and her smile grew. Once she started thinking about working in her lab, about discussing her findings with her colleagues, with Sheldon, even floating to the back corner to check on the monkeys that weren't there, the time flew. Before she knew it, minutes of uninstructed silence had passed and Mark was repeating her name.

"Amy? Amy! I think we've got it," he said with a grin.

"Oh? Alright, good," Amy said.

"Would you like to see any of them?"

"No, thank you. I'll wait for the issue if that's alright."

"It's perfect. Thank you again for your cooperation. This is going to be a great story for _Seed_."

"Our pleasure," April said, intercepting Amy before the French duo could grab her again. "But we've really got to be on our way. Phone interview in thirty!"

"I understand," Mark said. "She's a hot commodity."

* * *

Amy was back in her interview clothes from the morning show at _Good Day LA_ when she stepped into her apartment, exhausted. The phone interview had gone off without a hitch. But, as this was the fourth interview she had given in two days, the talk was beginning to get repetitious. She longed for a simple day to herself in the lab, plugging in results to a calculating algorithm with no sound to disturb her but the whir of the centrifuge and the cry of the monkeys. 'Playing scientist' at the _Seed_ shoot today had her nostalgic for latex gloves.

At the very least, Amy thought she had found a confidant in April Barton. Unlike university relations head Mr. Blakeman, April was still young enough and new enough to the media industry to (as of yet) not be corrupted by cynicism. She recognized Amy's hang-ups with much of the media-elite brown-nosing and offered support and encouragement where she could, but commiserated and listened when Amy needed to complain. She was good at her job, taking so many things into account that the pair of them never felt rushed when getting from interview to interview yet never arrived early enough to border on obtrusiveness. Her attention to scheduling rivaled even that of Sheldon's.

"The _Seed_ expedition was certainly the best of the day," April said as they were driving back to Amy's apartment. "The article and the shoot. Towards the end there, you looked like you were really into it."

"Yes. I just had to pretend like I was really in my lab. Shut out all the nonsense around me, you know."

"You were so intense!" April said, and Amy quirked a brow. "Oh, a good intense. Like, _I'm saving the world!, _concentrated intensity. But you looked happy while you were doing it."

"Oh really? He kept telling me to smile."

"Every person in publishing will tell you to smile," April said. "I will, Mr. Bill will, the people we see tomorrow will… smiles are good."

"Not everyone can be happy about slicing into grey matter," Amy playfully countered.

"Then it's a good thing you're not everyone! Here, check it out!"

April pulled the pair into Amy's parking garage and retrieved her phone from her purse.

"I hope you didn't mind, but I took a few shots of my own through the day," she said. "When I told my mother I was working with a Nobel-prize winner, she wanted me to chronicle the whole thing!"

She swiped her finger across the uploaded Facebook album, which did, indeed, follow the day's events. There were a lot of backstage pictures of _Good Day LA_, and the exterior of the _Seed_ building, one with Mark, and a hastily taken photo of the French hiries. Then there were pictures of Amy. One she had posed for with April, but the others, especially the ones on the lab set were… something else altogether. These were just pictures taken from a distance, on a smart phone with decent camera resolution, but if this is how she looked from April's amateur shots… Amy could only imagine what Mark would make her look like in the spread.

Intense, but happy, engaged, thoughtful, pleased, excited… she didn't realize her face ran the gamut of emotions as she was working in the 'lab'.

The simple captions couldn't quite capture the attractive feel of the photographs; the duality of model and role model that Amy now understood:

_Working with AmyFFowler on the set of #GoodDayLA._

_ Exterior of #Seed science with Nobel-winning AmyFFowler!_

_ Nobel prize winner AmyFFowler looking amazing on the set of the #Seed shoot! _

"Sorry," April muttered. "I might have gotten carried away. I Instagramed, Tweeted, Facebooked, Snapchatted, and Pinned practically all of the pics I took today. Blame it on my multiple social media classes."

"Wow, that's… a lot of me."

"Do you mind? I can untag you if you want."

"No, it's alright," Amy said. "I've already been on tv, what's a few more pictures on a few more websites?"

"Cool. My mom's already favorited half of them. She's a bit over attentive."

"Most mothers are," Amy said. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow then? In the morning?"

"I was able to push back the PBS interview until Thursday, to give them time to get more guests for a round-table discussion," April said. "And the other radio stations won't have their segments until after three, and _Popular Science_ only needs material for the interview and some basic headshots, not a full-themed shoot."

"Which means?"

"Which means you have the morning off," April said cheerily. "I know today was exhausting, so don't expect me until around one tomorrow."

"Oh, thank you April," Amy said.

"No problem. You done good, kid."

"You do realize I'm at least a decade older than you," Amy said.

"Sure, but I never thought I'd get to say that. The timing seemed appropriate."

"Good night, April."

"Night, Amy."

**_dawwww... aren't we impressed with out awesome Dr. Fowler! Wasn't that fun? Oh, you wanted to know what Sheldon was going to say to her? Okay. Good thing I've got another chapter coming. Review if so inclined. Thanks for reading guys :)_**


	8. Sorry for the Apology

_**WAAAAAH! The chapter that was a long time coming, that should keep you satisfied for a while. Here's hoping at least, that I didn't permanently damage the Shamy. (Not that I could, as this is fan work, but who knows? Karma and all). Don't own it. Never will. If I did, something like this would open season 7. Enjoy!**_

Which found Amy face down on her sofa at nine o'clock, eyes shut, makeup a bit smeared, and a trickle of drool seeping out from the crease of her lip. The sharp rapping at her door sent her tumbling to the floor, and the triple echo of 'Amy' followed by the recognizable, successive knocks, sent her lumbering form straight to the entrance.

"Sheldon," she said sleepily, flicking her curled hair from her eyes. In her rush to get to the door, she had forgone her glasses, which meant she couldn't make out his expression.

"You were asleep?"

"I'm sorry. I've had quite an eventful day."

"I noticed."

A loaded silence followed.

"Would you like to come in?"

"Yes."

He stepped inside her door, and Amy scrambled toward her coffee table for her glasses. She wished she'd never put them on, because now she could see his expression. It was granite. Rushmore had nothing on Sheldon Lee Cooper.

"I attempted to contact you multiple times today to arrange a meeting," Sheldon began.

"I know I told you we would talk tonight Sheldon, and I do! Want to talk, that is. I just didn't carry my phone with me today, and when I got home, I fell right to sleep on the couch. I must have slept through your calls."

"As evinced by the puddle of saliva on the opposite end of the couch," Sheldon said in disgust.

Amy turned, embarrassed, and darted to the bathroom for some disinfectant. She caught her reflection in the mirror and was displeased; the makeup far too heavy without the added luminescence from the _Seed_ filters and spotlights. She scrubbed at her face quickly and readjusted her wrinkled interview wear, and stepped back into the living quarters to face a serious Sheldon. She sprayed a bit of all-purpose soft-surface cleaner onto her drool spot, thankful for the relieving twitch she noticed on Sheldon's face.

"Can I offer you a hot beverage?" Amy asked.

"If you have any tea with low caffeine concentration, I would like that."

"I have a white tea with 1% of the caffeine contained in coffee. Will that suffice?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Amy retreated, again, to her kitchen this time, the click of those infernal shoes sounding against the linoleum. She moved on autopilot as she prepared the kettle and waited, all the while aware of Sheldon's constant watch.

What was she doing? This was _Sheldon_. She was never uncomfortable around him. If she thought about it, he was the one who had calmed her this afternoon. Contemplating him, and science, and how he contributed to her work, had helped her channel a bit of peace while she was surrounded by the imposing cameras. Propped against the stove, she stretched her neck back and rolled her tight shoulders to release the inbuilt tension, her hair falling forward in her face. With another curl behind her ear her hair was over her shoulder, and Sheldon was agog. She turned back to her stove top, worried from his expression that he had seen a fire erupt over her shoulder or something of the like. Whipping around again, she bit her lip in nervousness.

"Is something wrong? Sheldon?"

"No… I— you just… distracted me."

"Oh," she said, still confused. "I'm sorry."

The kettle whistled and she plopped two bags in opposing mugs, completing their tea preparation and slowly returning to Sheldon.

"Here," she said, concentrating on the steam instead of his face. Amy was feeling exposed again, like that afternoon under the hooded lights. She refused to face him squarely, but she could feel his eyes scanning her. "I um… don't know where to go from here."

"Neither do I, unfortunately."

"I would tender another apology, but I hardly feel that is adequate for my completely inappropriate behavior the other night."

"I likewise said some things that were inappropriate, and offer my sincerest apologies for speaking so hastily. I was… unnerved that you would put yourself in a situation like that, in another country, without telling me first. But you are a grown woman, and are free to do as you please."

_Free?_ What did that mean? She wasn't free; she was bound by a relationship agreement.

"I'm free to do as I please? I'm confused by your phrasing."

"How so?" he asked.

"I'm bound to you, obligated, in a way. In a _good_ way, Sheldon," Amy added. "There are certain things in my life that I will do of my own accord, but you are a part of my personal life, and deserve, if not consultation, then at least notification of my actions. I don't want to be 'free' in that way, as you termed it."

"You… you don't?"

"Of course not. I—"

Oh gosh.

She loved him. When _that_ had happened, she didn't much want to pinpoint; but she'd said it to herself on loads of occasions. She'd said it to _others_: "I love his eidetic memory. It's so sexy,"; "his quirks only make you love him more!"; "How can any woman spend eight hours a day alone with that face and _not_ fall in love with it?" She'd been throwing it around as a linguistic place holder.

If she'd thoroughly considered the implications for that phrasing, perhaps she would have been a bit more careful with her word selection. But love? A misused cultural idiom frequently conflated with sentimentality, affection, or arousal. Is this what that feels like? The odd phrase, 'falling in love' made much more sense to her now, for the past few days had felt, for Amy, like slamming into hot asphalt at the standard gravitational pull of 9.8 m/s2. And guess what? It _hurt_.

Sheldon spoke up, hesitantly. "Amy, when I think about… us, it unsettles me slightly. There are too many variables. The what-could-be distempers me; and, I'm sure you'll concede there's an intriguing luxury in certainty, which is far preferable to nonsensical, emotional chaos. When I choose not to feel, I know what's going to happen. I know what's under my control." He finished proudly, as if he had just given her some sort of gift.

"What do you mean you choose not to feel?" she asked dejectedly.

"What I said. It's a choice I make."

"But why? What's wrong with feeling?"

"It's reductionary."

"How so?"

"Emotions have a time and a place. But being able to control them is what makes people successful. Most of the great men of modern society have put aside their own personal, hippy-dippy feelings and have done what needed to be done for the greater good. I honestly believe that my work will contribute to the greater good."

He was coming at this as he always did, from a static, sanitary position of logic. He wouldn't budge unless he was refuted with oppositional logic. So Amy zigzagged in another direction: "I've accomplished some arguably great achievements professionally, and I've not forgone emotion."

"I've always recognized my limitations in the emotional field," Sheldon said simply. "You've been working on this project since before I met you, so some emotional distraction wouldn't have hindered your process. I don't have the same impact on your work as you do on mine."

"But what do I have to do with your work? I wouldn't interfere, you know that! I only want the best for you professionally."

"Amy, in the time since I've know you, my work has suffered."

"Is that a fact or an opinion?" Amy asked, incredulous.

"Both."

"Logically impossible."

Sheldon began to squirm. "I don't feel that my work is at the level it should be. Especially after partnering with Kripke this last semester. I could be doing more."

"How about you take some of your own advice and _choose not to feel_?" she retorted. "If you do it with me, you can do it with your work."

"That's not the same thing."

"Why not? Because you can get over _feeling_ in your work, but what about feeling when it comes to someone else? Forget about me," she said, longing for him to understand the implications of his argument. "How do you feel about Leonard? Penny? Your MeeMaw? Professor Proton? You once told me that when you had a feeling, you knew it. Hammerhead sharks? Swordfish? I remember! I think you know how you feel about me, and about how you feel about me in your life and your work. You just don't want to address that because it's not just new, it's unfathomable."

"I can see that the stress of your day parading around in immodest clothing while pandering to lesser minds has left you somewhat addled," Sheldon countered. "I propose a relationship reboot, commencing from your departure to Stockholm last Friday, with the added exception that you had discussed the win with me. I will acknowledge the accolade, but nothing concerning the ceremony or the events of the weekend will hold account."

"But Sheldon, if we don't discuss it, it won't be fixed!"

"Who says anything needs to be fixed? I liked things how they were."

"If we don't find a healthier way to work through our disagreements, we'll be right back in the same boat. One that seems to be sinking," she said, rising from the couch.

She moved to the front of the bar with a hand to her head.

"It's been escalating, all year Sheldon. Halloween, we argued. When I intrusively suggested I live with you, we argued. The Dungeons and Dragons game…" she reddened at the memory, and from his guilty look, she could tell Sheldon was thinking hard about the event. "I wanted more than you could give, and our friends made me uncomfortable, which in turn made you uncomfortable, which is the last thing that I want to do, but the only thing I seem to be good at."

Sheldon rose from the couch as well, turning back to face Amy. He sidestepped the furniture to stand near her, the customary six inches of personal space between them. Never before had Amy wanted to increase that distance, but today was proving to be the exception.

"Your logic fails once again, Amy. You were just awarded the Nobel prize. And you've been interviewing, and… engaging with others for the past several days. You're exceedingly knowledgeable and professional. You are 'good at' many things."

"You listened to my interviews?"

"Every one I could pick up. I even sat through an abysmal story at seven this morning concerning 'this season's nail polish colors' so I wouldn't miss your interview. I took notes for Penny."

"That interview was awful."

"The hosts did not seem very familiar with the material. They didn't give you a chance to adequately describe your findings."

"Oh, but just wait Sheldon!" Amy said excitedly. "Are you familiar with _Seed _magazine?"

"The online publication?"

"Yes! The addiction project is going to be the main article in their next issue!"

"So you spoke with them today as well? Is _that_ what those pictures were for?"

"Yes! The features writer interviewed me, and— wait. You've seen the pictures already? Why did you say it that way?"

"What way?" Sheldon queried.

"So condescendingly."

"I wasn't condescending," Sheldon retorted.

"Your tone, Sheldon, betrays you."

"I just don't believe any _serious_ scientific magazine would have you traipsing about a lab in inappropriate attire," his ire was rising, and he turned to face her full on.

"I was wearing a lab coat," Amy said.

"You call that garment a lab coat?"

"It was quite snug. It was actually a dress thing, but I don't think it was inappropriate," she said, likewise facing him.

"I disagree."

"It's no shorter than that silly Star Trek costume you had me wear!"

"But that doesn't matter, because I'm the only one that will see you in it!"

Amy surveyed Sheldon, another unreadable emotion now bubbling at the edges of his expression. This wasn't the fearful wariness of their previous argument. It was passionate disapproval, slighted anger, and… possessiveness? This night had been a weird up and down of argument and dismissal, confrontation and apology. Amy thought their speech ebbed and flowed but got them absolutely nowhere. And now they were fighting once again.

"Sheldon, it's for the research!"

"Are you listening to yourself, woman?!" Sheldon asked hastily. "How can you say something like _this_ is all about research?" he made a curvy gesture with his hands in Amy's direction, and shoved his phone under her nose accusingly.

Amy took it in confusion, flicking through the few uploaded images from _Seed_'s Facebook page. Captions read:

_Tune in to our next issue where we profile Nobel Prize winner Dr. Amy Farrah Fowler on her landmark nicotine addiction study and stint as a researcher at UCLA! To stimulate some healthy scientific curiosity, here are some preview pics from our shoot today._

And there she was. In her lab. Looking… not like herself at all. The shots were tasteful, professional, but no matter what talk Mark had built her up with, the editor in charge of selecting the photos for the layout was certainly framing this piece around _her_. Not the research, but the pretty woman in aesthetically pleasing clothing with an almost coy countenance and averted eyes. With a little Photoshop, her nimble, capable hands seemingly caressed the lab instruments. April's voice rung in her ears: _sex sells._

"I didn't realize it was going to be so heavily focused on me."

"Sure. And you're all out there, for the whole world to see!" Sheldon said in exasperation. "Meanwhile I've been staring at these all night, wasting precious time all because of _you_, trying to call you without you answering me, and I'm fed up with it!"

_Sheldon had been staring at pictures of her all night? WHAT._

"I told you, I didn't know that's how they were going to come out," she argued.

"Amy, I will not have my girlfriend act as the centerfold for every popular science periodical that comes her way. It's beneath you; you're objectifying yourself!" Sheldon rose to his full height over her, arms crossed over his chest.

"How is promoting women in science objectifying myself? These are normal photographs Sheldon! If you picked up any other magazine on a newsstand, you'd probably be scandalized at the impropriety. I'm a nun compared to them."

"I don't care. I don't want you doing anymore of it."

"That's not in my hands. University Relations tells me where to go, how to dress, what to do."

"You can always refuse. What about scientific integrity?" he was assaulting her personal space, looming over her.

"How does this lack integrity?" she shouted, knees knocking as she backed into the bar. "I want to promote my work!"

"Stop it, Amy," he pointed a finger at her chest. "We both know it's not about your work."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"You're a fetching individual, and aesthetically pleasing individuals such as yourself frequent the glossy pages of periodicals, online and in print; they're offering you up as eye candy."

"Why does that matter if people read the article in the end?"

"It matters because you're _my _girlfriend."

"And?"

"And… it matters."

"Why?" she yelled.

"Because," Sheldon breathed heavily. "It. Matters."

_Jealousy_. That was the new emotion. Not because she had won the Nobel Prize, but because other people, men in particular, within and without the scientific community, might ogle her. She was no pin-up girl, but she couldn't remember the last time there'd been a scientific profile on a researcher who wasn't a Caucasian, middle-aged, graying male. The representatives at _Seed_ had been struggling; an online magazine competing with _Popular Science _in today's media market. They probably jumped at the chance to put a woman in their electronic pages.

"Who is Mark?" Sheldon asked coldly.

He removed his accusing pointer finger from her chest, her heavy breathing and confounded, angered state melting into recognition: he was afraid he was losing her. Not just to success, but to other people, other relationships. She couldn't display her commitment to him through physical affection; she could only provide lip service. And her previous statements had been, if not fully lies, then at least half-truths; no wonder he didn't trust her.

"The photographer from today," she said.

"I saw him in the _Seed_ promotional photos. He doesn't work with you, then?"

"No," she said, almost flush against his body. "I'll probably never see him again."

Sheldon regarded her, fingering her unfamiliar curls in his left hand. "Amy…"

"You have nothing to worry about Sheldon," she said. "I swear."

"You're brilliant Amy, I'll always have something to worry about," he confessed, dragging his knuckle over a space of exposed skin on her forearm. The contact was so brief it could have been unintentional. Amy shuddered anyway.

"And now that everyone else knows about your capabilities, it's harder. Because they want to make you appealing to the masses, the consumers of 'popular science.' They put you in these socially-conforming outfits, make you engage in trivial conversation with interviewers beneath you, and offer you up as a sacrifice to the scientific community at large. But that's not you. I want my Amy back."

"I'm still the same person, Sheldon. And I'm only doing this for my project. I've just got to make nice with a few more people—"

"Yeah, well maybe I don't want to share!"

"I'm not going to limit myself because of your insecurities. I know where I stand, in my work, and in this relationship." Amy closed her eyes and fiddled with the stitching on her interview skirt. He was close enough to smell, close enough to embrace; but she restrained herself, didn't reach for him. "If you're the one with the problem, then maybe you're the one who's going to have to do something about it."

Sheldon's head tilted minutely to the right and edged down, achingly slow.

"Perhaps you're correct."

Sheldon pulled her to him, pinning her between his body and the countertop. He held her like a child holds their favorite stuffed animal: tightly, protectively, longing for the comfort, stability and happiness it provides. One of his hands meandered along her back, settling at the dip of her hip, only to wander back to the loose frays of her hair. He tucked her into his embrace, shoving her body into his elbow crook and covering her head with his chin. She felt the vibrations of his voice like an electric current, slipping, convulsing, from the crown of her head to the arches of her feet.

"I don't want to share you with everyone else. You signed the agreement. You are my girlfriend. Not James'. Not Mark's. And not any other man you may meet who becomes enamored with you because you're clever and have been awarded for your diligence. I never considered myself the possessive type, but now that you're in the public eye, I fear that something unfortunate could happen to you. People might want to take advantage of your success, and I won't let that happen."

Amy mumbled into his shirtsleeve. "Thank you, Sheldon."

This hug… grip… chokehold… was an abnormality. And as much as Amy appreciated his attempt at physical interaction, he was going to break her glasses if he held her any tighter. She began wiggling, attempting to extract herself from his arms.

"Sheldon?" she murmured.

"Yes?"

"You're going to crush my frames."

"Oh right, sorry."

He released her and she took her glasses off, brushing the pained area at her temples. She nibbled at her lip and turned back to her blurried boyfriend, who regarded her quizzically.

He took her face in his hands and rotated it from side to side.

"I hope those frames didn't put too much pressure on the squamus process of your temporal bone."

She shook her head, slowly, back and forth, his hands never leaving her chin.

"Amy… you bite your lower lip when you're nervous."

Her back and forth shaking changed to a quick vertical nod of affirmation.

"It's curious…" he said, grazing his thumb over the fleshy redness of her mouth. "… how frictions, touches, stimulate the orbicularis oris. Did you know the lips are 100 times more sensitive than human fingertips?"

"External stimuli frequently produce—" Amy couldn't finish her factoid, because Sheldon had just touched his thin lips to hers. Their combined 68 facial muscles were doing their jobs spectacularly, a distinct puckering and smacking noise heard as the two pulled back.

"I—"

"I—"

"Can I—"

A nod.

A look.

A pause.

And then: hands in hands, clutching; hands in hair, tentative; hands on a waist, or a jaw line; shift, break, return, again and once more, until the duo had moved from the kitchen bar to one of the chairs in the dining area. It was an odd position, Amy perched on the edge of the seat, twitching as the kneeling Sheldon ran a hand up her bare calf. He cupped the sensitive area at the back of her knee as she ducked down to meet his mouth. Humid and shy with a balmy slipperiness, he sucked on her top lip and nudged with his tongue. The action prompted an involuntary convulsion from Amy, coupled with an aggressive raking of teeth along her partner's lips.

"Ow," he murmured.

"Sorry," she said, kissing the nipped tissue.

"I need to—"

"Um hmm…"

And they were up again, moving clumsily in a flurry of palms and clavicles and hips and a bare shoulder and an exposed abdomen.

They paused at the doorjamb to Amy's bedroom, not for lack of motivation, but for an inevitable realization. Who would be the first to cross the threshold into her carpeted sleeping quarters, the sanctity of her bedroom? Who would, quite literally, take the first step?

Coming up for air, the pair's foreheads converged for rest, all huffing breaths and sweaty skin. Sheldon was shirtless and flushed, his fingers carefully danced over Amy's ribcage like a pianist's over his keys. Amy's interview blouse was unrecognizable, buttons popped the length of her torso and a ripped shoulder seam where Sheldon had tugged a bit too forcefully.

"If we continue, this will only intensify," Amy breathed.

"And what happens if we stop?" Sheldon asked, always the curious one.

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Me either."

"Sheldon."

He didn't respond right away. She felt his grip tighten, and his fingers moved in pressurized circles on her naked abdomen, thumbs brushing the delicate area at the center of her chest, the lowest point of her sternum. He nudged Amy's forehead up and inhaled deeply, closing his lids against oncoming moisture.

"Sheldon—"

"It's happening again," he croaked, a tear at the crease of his eyelid.

"What? What's happening?"

"I can't… I'm trying to— I keep… _feeling_."

"That's alright!" she said, loosening her grip on his neck.

Apparently, he took this as a sign of release, for he dropped his hands and leaped back. The skin his fingertips had warmed was uncomfortably chilled; Amy hated it.

"I shouldn't be here."

"We can talk about his," she tried.

"No…" he said, collecting his discarded shirts with erratic, hate-loaded motions. He picked up the blue shirt with the emblazoned Superman 'S' on the front and clenched it, expression timid and helpless and full of guilt.

"Why did I let myself do this?" he muttered, pulling on his long-sleeved undershirt. He stared accusingly at a wet spot near his cotton-covered elbow; a tea mug had been upended in the foray.

"Sheldon, we both know this has been a long time coming," Amy tried, arms propping her tired form on the back of her couch. "Unavoidable."

"Death is unavoidable. Taxes are unavoidable. Apparently instability, lunacy, blatant disregard for hygiene, all unavoidable! But I could have stopped this. I didn't have to…"

"Sheldon?" she asked anxiously, reaching out to him.

He dodged her caress like she was infected with a flesh-eating bacterium.

"I could've just _not_. I could have chosen _not to feel_."

"But you did! You can't deny that you did."

"But I didn't _want_ to."

Ouch. Amy tried not to take it personally, she really did. The endeavor to keep her eyes dry was staggering, so she clenched her fists against the cushions instead. Breathed deeply. But she would not leave this unresolved.

"Amy, I don't want this."

"Tell that to your dilated pupils."

"I can't help biology."

She raised a challenging brow.

"It's like you're a neurobiologist _on purpose,_" he griped.

"Sure, Sheldon. Everything I do in life is meant to make you question yourself. I'm quite existential that way."

"So you admit it!"

"Sarcasm."

"Can't you just—" he cut off, flailing an arm at her. "— cover yourself?"

She must have been in a right state if her vital signs were any indication. Heated, with increased vascular throbbing in her ears and genitalia, open shirt, exposed brassiere, rumpled skirt and a frizzy, curly mess of hair. She might look humiliated, but she would not _feel_ humiliated.

"No," she said.

"I can't concentrate—"

"Good."

"—with you like that."

"I should go shirtless more often, then."

"Amy!"

"Sheldon!"

"This is inexcusable," he huffed. "You are obdurate, disrespectful, and your unrepenting attitude only reaffirms your self-absorbed actions tonight."

"I'm self-absorbed?!"

"Amy, you know full well that I cannot do this… I cannot be this. I'm not some knight errant, bedecked in chain mail astride a steed, waiting to whisk you off on some unconscionable, morally repugnant rendezvous."

"Oh, you're a knight, alright. You're just ironically quixotic."

"Pardon?"

"You're not a hopeless romantic, no sir! You went the other way! Delusionally stoic! And if this encounter has taught me anything, it's that I am not in the wrong here. You touched me first. You _kissed_ me first, Sheldon. You picked me up, you licked my neck, you tore my shirt, you, you, you! You…" she remembered. Dare she bring it up now? "Last year. You held my hand, Sheldon," she cracked. "And so I followed, I responded, but I only paralleled you. Why didn't I drag you in there," she asked fiercely, pointing at her bedroom doorway, "And finish the job?"

"Because you finally came to your senses," he said spitefully.

"No. Because I will not make that move. It will be you. I will never make you do anything you don't want to do, that you don't initiate. I made that promise for myself, and for you, when I got on the plane to Sweden."

"Then what do you call this?!" he shouted helplessly. "I didn't want this!"

"Then what do you want?"

"I don't know."

"Well, since we can't seem to interact with each other without arguing or ruining our garments, maybe you should take some time to figure out what it is that you do want."

"What are you saying?" Sheldon asked suspiciously.

"I'm trying to help you in the only way I know how. Do you want to be here, right now, Sheldon?"

"No."

"Then I'm not forcing you to stay. Do you want to see me tomorrow? Or the next day?"

An overloaded noiselessness settled in the living area. She could do it; she could maintain a logical detachment, just like him. It would be alright, she reminded herself. He has to know he's free to go if he needs to.

"Sheldon, tell me the truth."

He shook his head, eyes downcast.

"It's alright. I won't be hurt."

"I can't even look at you right now," he confessed. "Let alone think about seeing you tomorrow, or later, even. I don't know what's happening."

Amy crossed toward her overstuffed chair, the one Sheldon had placed his jacket on at the beginning of their night.

"Then it's only reasonable for me to let you figure that out," she said, gathering the jacket and shuffling toward the door. She pulled Sheldon by the hand and led him to the exit. "I propose a Relationship Stall," she said.

"A what?"

"A Relationship Stall. The parameters operating under circumstances akin to a pause, not a stop or a rewind, or an erasure, which the reboot seems to favor. This allows you to process all events that you have taken part in, have seen, have analyzed."

Amy stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss to his jaw line, loitering near his cheek for a few extra warm seconds before distancing herself entirely.

"But keep in mind, Sheldon," she continued, voice somewhat shaky. "If you leave a device on pause too long, it can damage the entire apparatus. I'm pretty hardy," she said, as sad, as resigned, and as deflated as she felt, she tried to inject some hope into her tone. "I can wait for you. And if we have to backtrack a bit, I'm okay with that. I agree, tonight was far too much too soon. But we can't keep hitting pause at the same part of the film, or we'll never see the end."

"The stall initiates now?" he asked.

"Yes. You don't see or hear anything during a pause. You only reflect. So keep that in mind."

Instead of walking out on her, this time _she_ was the one who shut the door, slowly, regretfully, in his face.

_**I have a feeling everyone is going to hate me now... But, what's the fun in fixin' what ain't broke? More to come. Would really love a review for this chapter, let me hear from you! **_


	9. News Night Snafu

_**Hot diggity! (As Sheldon would say). Looks like this story is finishing up quicker than expected. LOVED the reviews for the last chapter, and I hope I deliver for you guys on the home stretch. I, unfortunately, do not own TBBT. CBS and its affiliates, they have that honor. Enjoy!**_

"— which is why the control group exhibited such promising reactions to the newly formulated chemical compounds, after we isolated the G-protein dopamine receptors in the primate CNS. From this result, we were able to effectively create an artificial ligand to boost the intermolecular protein bonds that wear down over the course of an injected nicotine regimen."

Disaster in her personal life effectively translated to huge success in her professional career. Amy had been working the circuit of all major scientific media outlets, from radio to print to screen to the byways of the Internet. Currently engrossed in the PBS roundtable with Dr. Kerrigan, who had finally made it back from Europe, as well as the moderator and a group of scientists from other nationally-recognized labs, Sheldon was the last thing on her mind.

Not that she hadn't spent adequate, some might say an inordinate amount of time contemplating her relationship. It had been three days since she had instituted the stall, and not a word from Sheldon. Between the meetings with the press, April's ushering and Mr. Bill Blakeman's creepy, ever-watchful presence, she had only just been able to keep in touch with Penny, her spy to all-things-Sheldon. Intel on his whereabouts and condition was sparse; his frequently reserved nature only intensified, according to her bestie, and if he wouldn't talk to Leonard or Penny about the situation then his feelings would go unspoken.

Perhaps he had still not determined what exactly he desired from her. Or of her. Or… just her. Did he desire her? The other night might serve as a testament to something, possibly, probably, hopefully, _desire_.

The blue of the moderator's tie morphed into the pastel blue of Sheldon's eyes when he focused intently on his model train. Or on a physics equation. Or that one night, when he focused on the curve of her shoulder blade.

"Dr. Fowler?"

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"

* * *

Amy and Bobby walked over to where Bill Blakeman was standing with April a respectful foot behind him. April inclined her head to the director of University Relations, giving Amy a decent 'something's going on here' look.

"Mr. Blakeman," Dr. Bobby Kerrigan said, extending a hand. "Good to see you again."

"I wish I could say the same," Blakeman said. "The interview, while fascinating, didn't quite highlight the topic we were hoping to address."

"Possible cures for nicotine addiction?" Bobby replied cheekily. "I'm pretty sure, between myself, Dr. Fowler, and the other _five addiction experts_, we had the topic covered."

"Ah, but you see, if only that were it," Blakeman continued. "This is your first interview, Dr. Kerrigan, so I understand your thinking. But Amy," Blakeman said, turning to her. "I expected more from you. An hour-long panel and you couldn't mention UCLA once?"

"It never came up," Amy said. "You said to mention it if it was relevant. It wasn't relevant. If people tune in to the pretaping, they'll hear it when they read our credentials."

"Not enough, I'm afraid." Blakeman pulled his smartphone out and set to typing. "We don't have time to brief Dr. Shindek on media relations, and we've already invested a significant amount of energy in your instruction. In your last three interviews, you didn't talk about the University. I thought that that point had been made expressly clear."

"I'm sorry," Amy said, though she was in fact the opposite of sorry. "In the next interview, every other word will be UCLA. 'Dopamine' UCLA, 'inhibitors' UCLA, 'tend' UCLA, 'to' UCLA, 'produce' UCLA… you get the picture."

Blakeman, implacable and stern, buttoned his suit jacket with intent, and tightened the knot at his tie. His once informal demeanor at their first meeting in the President's office had morphed completely. He seemed another man, not that Amy knew him that well to begin with. What had changed?

"Yes," he said. "I just hope you do as well, Dr. Fowler." He turned on his heel and left the studio.

"That was…"

"Hell?" Amy said to Bobby.

"I was going to say 'intense', but yeah, hell's good, too."

"Are you alright, Amy?" April asked sincerely.

"Honestly, no. I'm tired of this. I've been doing interviews for over a week straight, and if I smile any harder my mandible is going to dislocate itself, scuttle away, and I'll be lower-jawless."

"Has it really been that bad?" Dr. Kerrigan asked.

"Today was a pleasure compared to the rest of the interviews, Bobby. You got to come in on the one where we were able to debate with other scientists. Meanwhile, I've been all dolled up and thrown at talk show hosts who couldn't tell a protein from an amino acid."

"That doesn't sound appealing," Bobby commiserated.

"The good news is, it's almost over!" April said, walking the researchers out of the building to the car lot. "Tomorrow's your last television interview, and from then on University Relations will just send out a press release to anyone who's interested in contacting you."

"What's the interview for tomorrow?" Amy asked unexcitedly.

"It's a live interview, at the 24-hour news channel HRN."

"Oh no," Amy said. "Tell me it's not—"

"With Shirley Faith? I'm afraid so," April said, staring at her clipboard.

"Isn't that the woman who covers all those crazy trials?" Kerrigan asked. "What does she have to do with science?"

"Absolutely nothing," April said, equally confused. "I mean, I know she's a ratings hound, but I have no idea why Bill even agreed to this spot. It's not in our target demographic…"

"It doesn't matter," Amy said, leaning against the car door. "It's the last one, which means I get to go back to my lab once it's all over, right?"

"Of course," April said. "She does primetime, but because we're west coast it'll be relatively early in the evening, around six, which will put Atlantic and Central time at nine and eight. They'll do your basic split-screen live feed cause she'll be interviewing you out of the New York studio."

"Pick up at five?" Amy asked.

"Thereabouts."

"What about me?" Kerrigan asked.

"Blakeman said Amy was going to do this solo. It makes sense. She's built up credibility over the past week with the viewing audiences, and a new face on the same story might suggest some inconsistency. Today was fine, because it was the panel, but he doesn't want you two plunging into scientific jargon with each other and leaving the audience feeling alienated."

"Makes sense, I guess," Amy said.

She thought she noticed a look of relief pass over Bobby's face.

"What?" he asked, as they loaded into the sedan. "I don't really like cameras."

"Doesn't matter," Amy said. "This group's so keen to get the word out, they'll place you in front of that lens even if you have an anxiety attack."

April eyed Amy conspiratorially from the rearview mirror.

"Speaking from experience?" Bobby asked.

"Ha," Amy said, devoid of sentiment. "Yes."

* * *

"… and you just left?" Penny asked.

"Yeah," Sheldon said.

"Walked out the door?"

"As I was not wont to climb out the window, yes, I walked out the door."

"You wanted to climb out the window?" Penny asked.

"He was being poetic," Leonard said.

The threesome were huddled around the coffee table of apartment 4A, a chair pulled up next to Leonard's overstuffed seat, Thai food balanced on bended knees.

"Did she say you two were taking a break?" Penny continued.

"Not in so many words."

"Then what was it?" Leonard queried.

"A stall."

"What's a stall?"

"A relationship stall. Like a pause."

"And did you want that?" Penny asked.

"At the time… I was rather overwhelmed, I couldn't think properly."

"What happened?" Penny asked.

"Do you remember, a few months ago, when you asked whether or not I would be physically intimate with Amy?"

"Sure, sure," Penny nodded.

"Well, I said that I had not ruled it out. And, as Leonard has probably informed you, Amy and I have been… rather unstable, as of late, the Nobel Prize acting as a catalyst for several issues I was unaware that we were avoiding."

"Sure, sweetie, now get to the physical part," Penny said, waving a fork-laden hand.

"Anyway, after our volatile fight upon her return, I went to apologize last night, and accept her own apology to me. We both acknowledged our individual faults in the previous argument."

Leonard and Penny waited with perked ears.

Sheldon quirked his mouth to the side, considering his saucy supper.

"We each succumbed to certain... admittedly tame aspects of physical desire, but stopped short of any coital acts."

Penny's eyes bugged and Leonard's brows knit together like a granny going at a pair of mittens. The pair seemed afraid to breathe.

"As expected, I suffered an anxiety attack and Amy suggested a stall. I believe her exact words were 'to figure out what you want' in the relationship, and that she would wait while I came to terms with that."

"But that's a good thing, isn't it?" Penny asked. "She wants you to be comfortable. Doesn't want to push you."

"I suppose, but I haven't spoken with her in three days."

"And it sucks, doesn't it?" Leonard asked.

"Crass as that sounds, yes." Sheldon nodded. "It sucks."

"I've never heard of a Relationship Stall before," Leonard said.

"It was something Amy came up with, based on our Relationship Reboot."

"What's a Relationship Reboot?"

"A reset. Going back to the point where we both agreed the relationship operated at its optimum level."

Penny narrowed her gaze, turning her tiny mouth down in disdain. "And you've done that before?"

"On a number of occasions."

"Sheldon!"

"What?"

"You can't just pretend that something didn't happen in a relationship!"

"Why not? If it's for the good of the two people concerned, what's so bad about erasing a bit of unpleasantness?"

"Because, the history is something special. You can't just ignore it."

"I was operating under a different impression."

"Look at Leonard and me," Penny said. "It's been a long time coming, but we made it to a really stable place. And I don't think it would be as good as it is now if we didn't have to go through all that stuff in the beginning. It made us stronger, don't you think?" she asked, leaning towards Leonard.

"Yeah, Penny's right, Sheldon. All that crap I went through with her at the beginning, and in the middle—"

"Hey!" Penny said, swatting his arm.

"Don't interrupt. It was crap. But it was crap on both our sides. We can't just pretend it never happened. How else would we learn from our mistakes?"

"That's assuming I made a mistake," Sheldon said haughtily.

"You walked out of her apartment," Penny said bluntly. "You made a mistake."

Sheldon dropped his chin like a boy reprimanded for playing ball in the house.

"But what do I do now?" he asked sincerely.

"Do what she told you to do," Penny said directly. "Figure out what you want. Look Sheldon, I love you, you know I do, but I swear on the state flag of Nebraska that if you hurt that girl you'll have me to answer to." She stuffed some rice into her mouth with a little more force than necessary, and started waving her fork around like a minitrident. "She is the best thing that's happened to you since I've known you. And Amy's got a lot going for her, not the least of which is a guy who could be the man she wants him to be if he just sucked it up. Hell, that girl got me an acting job. She's my best friend and if you hurt her, I'm going to make you question your existence."

"That was really nice, honey, but I think he might need to process the several life threats you just threw his way," Leonard mumbled.

Sheldon stood and retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

"As you said, I have a lot to think about. Is it six yet? I think it's time for Amy's interview."

Leonard grabbed the remote control and changed the channel to HRN.

"Oh no, I hate this lady," Penny said.

"Why?"

"She makes everybody on her show cry."

"What?!" Sheldon exclaimed.

"I'm sure that's not the case here," Penny conceded. "She's talking science stuff; normally this lady goes to town on lawyers defending alleged domestic abusers and mommy murderers, things like that."

"That's weird," Leonard said. "This doesn't seem quite right—"

"Shh! Her segment's starting."

The threesome quieted and watched the onscreen graphics flash Amy's credentials as Shirley shuffled some notecards around. The split screen came up, and the interview began.

"Joining us tonight we have Amy Fowler, Nobel Prize winning researcher out of UCLA who claims she has found the cure… to addiction. Amy, how soon can we expect a product on the market?"

"Well, first off, it's Dr. Fowler. And I can't speculate as to whether or not there will be any type of drug available for public use in the near future. That's not in my hands."

"But there will be an addiction drug in the works sometime soon?" Shirley asked, placing a somewhat skeptical emphasis on the words 'addiction drug'. If there was a way to verbally airquote a phrase, this woman had perfected it with her dubious inflections.

"Once again, I can't say that for sure. And, I should clarify, this wasn't an addiction study on multiple substances. My research focuses solely on nicotine drug use."

"But that's what UCLA, your home institution, is marketing your research as."

"If that's the case, they didn't read my report. Nowhere does this say that I can cure alcoholism, or prescription drug dependency. Myself, as well as my partners Drs. Kerrigan and Shindek, believe that with further analysis focusing on synthetic ligand construction, a _possible_ drug could be developed for other types of addiction. We've made our results available for wide release. I cannot say this with complete certainty, but I would assume that our research sponsored by UCLA is open to bidding from different chemical engineering companies."

"Amy's really holding her own," Leonard said.

"Yeah, that woman seriously twists the facts. I know she was a prosecutor in Texas at one point," Penny said.

Sheldon snorted. "Probably got fired for leading the witnesses and irrelevant lines of questioning."

"Amy sure looks collected, though," Penny said, returning her attention to the television.

"—which is why we focused less on seratonin levels than on dopamine receptors."

"But is this product going to be safe for the public?"

"I'm not the person to answer that question. I'm not _making_ the drug; I've just performed the research that _leads to the drug_."

"So you're saying that you are primarily responsible for the research?"

"Correct," Amy said, exasperation evident even through the pixels of the screen.

"Then how do you respond to the reports that your findings were falsified?"

Leonard, Penny, and Sheldon watched as Amy paused and readjusted her glasses.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware of any such reports."

"We have credible sources out of UCLA that claim there were errors in the study, and that four control groups of your animal test subjects actually reacted adversely to the chemical compositions injected."

"Once again, I was not aware of those reports. None of the results have been falsified. Dr. Kerrigan and Dr. Shindek will back me on that assertion."

Amy stared into the camera, interview tense with more than implication; this woman was openly accusing her of fraud.

"Well, Drs. Shindek and Kerrigan aren't here. And this is coming from your own research institute."

"What department? Because I can guarantee you it didn't come from biology."

"Do you think this will adversely affect your Nobel Prize winnings?"

"I think it would _IF I HAD FALSIFIED MY FINDINGS_!"

"We have a caller here, Katie Pearson," Shirley said snidely. "Caller, you're on with Shirley Faith."

"Yeah… uh, I was just wonderin', why all these brainiacs think they can pull the wool over our eyes with this kinda stuff. Drug companies gettin' our hopes up for something they can't deliver."

Amy started to reply. "That seems to be an issue with your health care provider. As far as 'pulling the wool—"

"Do you have a problem with addiction, Katie?"

"I have family members that have problems, Shirley. And they get their hopes up with every new miracle drug on the market with these high-falutin scientists thinking they can take advantage of all the public."

"I'm NOT taking advantage—"

Shirley interrupted. "In light of these disturbing accusations, how do you think this will affect marketing the nicotine drug? Will it reduce your projected earnings?"

The feed was quiet for a few seconds. That dead air time was torture for Sheldon.

"Dr. Fowler, I asked how this would affect your projected earnings."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You have been ignoring and interrupting me so I didn't know to whom you were directing the question."

"Unfortunately, we're going to have to take a break," Shirley said, obviously pleased with herself. "We'll be back to discuss the possible legal ramifications of the falsified study after the break."

As the outro played, Amy's shocked face dissolved into flashy graphics and an unnaturally large headshot of Shirley Faith.

"What just… happened?" Penny asked.

"I think that was an ambush," Leonard said.

"They humiliated her," Penny said, hand over her mouth.

"There's no way that UCLA would have submitted her to the Nobel committee if there was any question in her results," Leonard said. "Any scientist worth their salt knows that."

"Yeah, but the general public doesn't. This might go viral, Leonard," Penny said, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. "Where, where's Sheldon?"

"I— buddy?" Leonard yelled into the apartment.

Sheldon emerged from his bedroom with his brown jacket and his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He slid his PC into the carry-all and tucked his phone, with something like restraint, into the depths of his pocket.

"Leonard, I need you to drive me to the office."

"Sheldon, it's nearly seven, and it's a Friday. I don't know what you're going to do, but I don't think you should be hasty. This might turn into nothing."

"Her professional career is on the line, and you call that nothing?" Sheldon asked. He rolled his shoulders in agitation, then bowed his head. "Leonard, I'm asking you as a friend. I want to get ahead of this before it reaches meme status and disperses among the population at large."

"Sheldon—"

"Leonard… please."

"I'll get my coat."

_**Because we all know how things go viral nowadays: Harlem Shake, Epic Rap Battles of History, Gangum Style. So Sheldon's got to do something about the reputation of HIS woman. 'Cause, you know, ain't nobody got time for that. Reviews appreciated :)**_


	10. Sabotage Averted

_**70 Reviews?! What the what?! Thank all of you SOOOOO much for your support on this fic. It's been fun writing something more than a one-shot with the Shamy, and I'm so happy you guys have liked it! Just so you know, this is winding down, the next chapter being the last one. For now, we gotta see what's going down with Amy, because we left her in a tight spot. I don't own this. Wish I did. Enjoy!**_

"What the hell was that?" Amy said as she stormed off the set. Thank god she was only in the local studio affiliate and not the New York site with that Faith woman. She might have leaped across the table and performed one of those maneuvers Penny so frequently referenced concerning rodeo cattle.

"I have no idea," April said, equally as flustered. "Those were not in the pre-interview questions her people sent over earlier."

"You think?" Amy spat, tearing at the pack mic attached to her skirt. She was so mad she was getting tangled in the wire.

"Here," April said, detaching the box from her back. "That was so unprofessional."

"That was 'gotcha' journalism if I've ever seen it," Amy seethed. "If you could even call that line of questioning journalism. I'm not a pharmacist or a chemist. What was she expecting?"

One of the affiliate EPs trotted over to April, who spun on the man, delivering a severe talking to. Amy paced in a corner, hands folded over her torso, as the petite red head gave the intimidating newsman what for.

"Come on," April said, taking Amy's elbow.

"I want an explanation!"

"So do I, but we're not going to get it here. They showed me the email forms; it had the UCLA letterhead, came straight out of the University Relations office."

"What? But Relations doesn't have anything to do with the biology department!" Amy said.

"Exactly. But it doesn't matter which department it came from. All those people have to hear is that UCLA threw you under the bus, and your credibility is shot. Amy, I swear, if I had known about this, I would have told you. Shit, I wouldn't have let you go on camera."

Amy put her head in her hand as they hightailed it out of the lobby of the office complex. "This cannot be happening."

"I'll get to the bottom of this," April promised.

"I don't even care any more," Amy said. "I just want to get back to my lab."

"And you'll get there. Right before we fix this idiotic situation."

"Here's hoping," Amy murmured.

* * *

**Two days later...**

… _Due to the recent publicity concerning an alleged falsifying of research findings, as well as your prominence in the public sphere, you are hereby suspended from lab work, lecturing, and other university-related labors pending a full-fledged review and investigation of the findings in your most recent published study..._

… _Following Friday's revelation of possible falsified findings, the Nobel Committee has opted to withdraw the 2013 physiology prize from the UCLA team, until an external examiner can review the submitted research reports…_

… _Amy, it's April. Seems that Mr. Blakeman signed off on the reports that Faith had for the broadcast. They're trying to figure out if he changed any of your numbers and leaked the information to the press. Seems he had access to your lab…_

… _Don't know how they could have gotten a copy of the final results. And even if they did, how did they alter them so irreparably? Just so you know, Amy, Bobby and I have complete faith in you. We know you didn't change anything, and that we didn't either. This whole thing will blow over. Melina would love for you and Sheldon to come over for dinner…_

… _Sweetie, it's Penny. Please give us a call. We're all really worried about you. That lady was insane, and we all know it. Just come over whenever. I'm here for you…_

Amy deleted each message from her voicemail. What was the point? Her reputation as one of the foremost researchers in her field was in an absolute shambles. Stripped of the Nobel Prize, essentially fired from her job, not to mention the dismissal of Pari and Bobby because of _her_ blunder. The universe threw one sucker punch after another. What. The. Hell.

It was Sunday morning. She usually Skyped Sheldon for a chat that covered all aspects of their respective weeks' activities. She rolled over in her waterbed, the asinine comments of that idiot woman barking at her in her dreams. Amy hadn't cried the night before. She had been too angry, too confused, and too hurt to shed something as stupid as a tear over that filth. She had remained in her apartment all day Saturday, refusing to take food or phone calls. She didn't want to feel anything. But Sunday was another day. She had taken the time to feel sorry for herself, but no more. Her only problem, now that the interviews were over, now that she was banned from her lab, and now that she was not speaking with Sheldon, was more an issue of occupation. What would she do with all of this time?

_Certainly not lie in bed and feel sorry for yourself anymore,_ she thought.

These investigations sometimes took weeks… how was she going to withstand the scrutiny?

_Screw it_.

Amy put on her tights, skirt, button up and cardigan. Her lab clothes. Her get-to-work clothes. Her come-at-me clothes. She drove her car all the way to the biology department at UCLA. Instead of heading for her lab, she spoke with Mac, one of the campus security officials she occasionally saw patrolling the halls of the biology building with all of the toxic chemicals.

"They've already taken the videos, Dr. Fowler," Mac said.

"They got it yesterday? I thought these investigations took ages."

"Something lit a fire under their bums, it seems," Mac said. "If it's all the same to you, I didn't think you'd lie on your reports Dr. Fowler."

"Thanks, Mac."

Amy turned to walk back to her car, her plans quashed before she could even successfully put them into motion. Her phone, however, had other ideas, as it started vibrating in her cross-shoulder purse.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Fowler? President Marshall. Sorry to call you so early on a Sunday, but in light of recent events, I thought you wouldn't mind."

"Yes well, my descent into scientific oblivion seems to be happening very fast. Are you calling to issue a formal reprimand?"

"Quite the contrary," Marshall replied. "How soon can you get to the University?"

"I'm already here."

"You were suspended from your lab, though."

"So?"

The other end of the line was dead air. And then: "I admire your spunk, Dr. Fowler. My office in fifteen, if you please."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Amy wasn't one for big action movies. Give her a romcom, preferably set in the English countryside or something more modern with Meg Ryan, and she was quite content. But military operations, strategy meetings, roundtables with the secret service; not exactly her cup of tea. Which is why walking into President Marshall's office affected her so.

Men and women, some in uniform, were bustling about the lobby area, answering phones and printing papers and flipping through files. She bypassed one gentleman who, if she wasn't mistaken, was speaking in hurried Swedish over a phone line. At the head of it all was April Barton, wearing the same clothes from their Friday interview, looking significantly less chipper than her usual self.

"April!" Amy said, sliding in and out of the bustling office. "What's going on here?"

"We're getting your reputation back!" she said, pointing at a uniformed officer.

"I don't—"

"Dr. Fowler, with me, please," Marshall motioned for her to bypass the chaos of the foyer and enter his office.

"President Marshall, I don't fully understand—"

"We've spent far too much money on you and your study to have it all get thrown to hell by some sensationalized newswoman," Marshall said plainly. "The falsified reports came from the school, and we think we know why," he said, laying a photo of one Bill Blakeman down on his desk.

"Mr. Blakeman?"

"Try Michael Snopes. We have him on camera breaking into your lab about three weeks ago."

"I still don't get it."

"Michael Snopes, aka Bill Blakeman, aka Carson Jennings, aka Parker Ford, and who the hell knows who else. He's been convicted of espionage within the private sector."

"So, you hired a criminal as head of University Relations?"

President Marshall ran a hand through his disheveled hair. Judging from his loose tie and the multiple paper coffee cups at his desk, he'd been up with April and her crew the entire night.

"When the announcement of your team's nomination came back a few months ago, our previous UR head unexpectedly took another job out-of-state. Bill, or Michael, or whoever the hell he is, came in with all of the qualifications. Went through a rigorous hiring process. Had the paperwork, the public profile, everything to back it up. Turns out, he's one of these corporate fixers. Ex-special ops, hired by a ring of Big Tobacco companies to make a complete fool out of you," Marshall said, throwing a folder across the desk.

Amy sat in the chair opposite his desk, too astonished to thumb through the material.

"Why would they want to mess with me?"

"They needed to disprove your findings. Big Tobacco companies have billions at stake here, Dr. Fowler. You, Dr. Kerrigan, and Dr. Shindek are going to cost them in the long run. If they could disprove your findings to the public at large, they wouldn't lose their sales. No research, no miracle drug."

"How did you get all of this so quickly?"

"I get a call from the police chief at eight last night, says he's got an anonymous source who's hacked into Michael Snopes' private accounts. Multiple accounts. Has records of the guy purchasing prepaid cell phones, deleted email addresses that have been recovered, more incriminating cyber stuff than you can shake a stick at. And it's all linked back to four prominent tobacco corporations. I don't know a damn about any of this, and neither does he, so we call up our tech guys and they've been going over the files, double-checking the info since the wee hours. April was already in on it. You can talk to her about it further if you wish."

"I… thank you," Amy said, overwhelmed with relief.

"Short story is your probation is no longer an issue. You can come back to work as soon as you're ready. Same goes for Kerrigan and Shindek," he said with another flick of the wrist to signal her dismissal. "Only next time, try curing caffeine headaches." He rubbed his temples with his stubby, stiff fingers. "Last night was hell."

Amy walked out of his office and into the buzzing hive of investigation. April pulled her aside.

"It won't be official until we can subpoena the records, but it's happening. The Nobel committee has already been informed, and we've notified Pari and Bobby. Your study and your findings are completely safe."

"How long have you been working on this?"

"I was so furious about the Shirley Faith interview I started banging on Mr. Bill's door yesterday morning. It swung right open and the whole place was cleared out. That's when I knew something was fishy. I headed down to the police station to report what I thought was a break in. When they came to investigate, their radios started going off, I hear the police chatter, and, because I'm brilliant at what I do, I recognized the numerical code for cyber crimes and white collar legalities. I followed one of the officers back to the station, and soon as we get there we get this email, completely outlining Mr. Blakeman's… that is, Mr. Snopes' movements concerning infiltrating the university and sabotaging your study. Footage of the guy breaking in, emails to and from Alpaca Smokes LLC, even an uploaded audio file of his phone conversation!"

"How do you know all of _that_ wasn't fake?" Amy asked.

"I said the same thing. But whoever the source was had gone through the California public code, referenced subpoena laws, extradition policies in case Blakeman headed out of state, and told us where to find the security footage and the burned phone. When the cops dusted for prints, they all belonged to Snopes. There's too much evidence for it _not_ to be him. I think we would have found this stuff eventually, but it could have taken years. Whoever it was, they wrote down federal _and_ state criminal procedure, not to mention provided the code for all the cyber-snooping they did. You've got a guardian angel compiling your entire case for you!"

"This is all a bit too much," Amy said.

"Totally understandable," April said. "Here's a copy of what we've compiled so far. Do you want to take it home with you? You can always bring it back to me. I've moved to the main office at University Relations."

"Did President Marshall put you in charge?!" Amy exclaimed.

"I'm only acting head, mainly because I'm so involved in this investigation. But come now, Amy," she said with a smile. "I don't even have my master's degree yet."

"Congratulations anyway. I can think of no one more qualified."

"Here. Take it. Look it over. But know that this whole mess is over before it could be properly started. You've dodged a professional bullet."

"Thanks again, April," Amy said, pulling the younger woman close.

Instead of driving home, Amy crossed campus again. She took her keys, pulled down the yellow police tape covering her door, and sat down at the countertop to her lab. And she was happy.

_**Whoo... crisis averted. But just barely. I mean, thanks to dramatic irony, we all know what's going on. And I'm supposing you guys want to know how someone saved the day, and how Amy's going to find out about it... Final chapter to follow. Reviews appreciated :)**_


	11. Shark Bait Oooh Ha Ha

_**Annnnnnnd here it is! The finale to this tiny tale, which I hope entertained, provided a giggle, or provoked a thought during your reading of it. A special thanks to all who have favorited, followed, or reviewed. It's really fun get to stretch the old grammatical/creative muscles every once in a blue moon. So, without further ado, (besides the bit about me not owning this, yada yada yoda), here's our conclusion. Enjoy!**_

The massive grey sharks drifted listlessly by Amy, securely stationed in the viewing tunnel on the other side of the glass. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of water cast rippling shadows on the aquarium walls; being here alone before opening hours was giving her the heeby-jeebies. She thought it would be a good idea to come here and think. She'd already made the deposit. She didn't want to waste her money, even if _he_ wasn't going to be enjoying the morning with her. Somewhere in the back of her head, Amy was hoping he would show. So she could say what, exactly, she hadn't the foggiest. She'd not heard from him since her credentials had been stripped and then miraculously restored two days later. The entire debacle had been outrageous, almost fantastic; it had occurred at the worst possible point in her personal life. She had lost her boyfriend, but at least she had her reputation. She wanted Sheldon to come, so she could apologize. She felt she deserved that closure.

Amy leaned forward, her forehead tapping against the glass. Who was she kidding? She had been involved with the largest scandal of the decade concerning the academic community. Sheldon probably wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole, let alone talk to her. Personally, professionally, she was tainted… she was… no. If the whole matter had taught her anything, it was that life sucks sometimes. But she was going to get through this. It would be difficult; adversity frequently was. But she'd been in adverse situations. She was the proverbial queen of overcoming unfortunate circumstance. Only this time… this time, she had had it all. Which meant that this time she had lost it all. Had lost everything. And now she only had to live up to perfection. Because that's what she had had. Friends, a career, a boyfriend that she lo— Oh well.

She kicked the base of the display, the thud reverberating along the empty corridor.

"It's like you want the glass to crack."

Sheldon drifted down the water-encased corridor, floating shadows from the hammerheads darkening his body. He peered up at them, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth; it was almost his koala face.

"Honestly, it has a hammer for a head. How could anyone not love that?" he asked.

Amy just looked back in silence, gnawing nervously at her cheek, as was her habit. Until she saw what he had in his hands. She tilted her head to get a better look and smiled softly.

"Oh, I'm glad you got it," she said.

"The dogopus? Yes, I was preparing for bed last night when the UPS man came by with a box afterhours. After a severe scolding of the man, who took it quite well, I might add, imagine my shock when out popped this interesting stuffed creature, with instructions requesting my presence at the Pasadena Aquarium early Monday morning. I believe, despite my assertions to the contrary terminology of 'surprise' adjectives, that I would call this one 'pleasant'."

Amy nodded, recalling her detailed plans for the day. She had intended on making this Sheldon's best birthday yet, but all of her carefully thought-out arrangements had somehow been pushed to the wayside whilst she attempted to remain above water in the middle of her professional crisis.

"There was supposed to be more," she said, staring absentmindedly at the shark tank. "But you and I were… and then the academic board thing came up. Of course it had to happen on your birthday," she continued sarcastically.

Sheldon tucked the dogopus under his arm.

"How did you get one of these?"

"I made it at the Build-A-Bear Workshop weeks ago."

"But… how did you know what it was?"

"I did some investigating with your roommate. I wanted to get you something special. Because you... well, you're special. I talked to Penny, and Leonard, and I remembered that thing you said when we were watching the movie. How you had a feeling, and you knew it. About swordfish," Amy clarified. "Today was going to be nautical themed." She sighed.

"Was going to be? You mean that's all I get from my girlfriend on my birthday?"

"I was under the impression that you didn't have a girlfriend. Who would want a girlfriend that was the laughing stock of the scientific community?"

"But that UR guy was a hired plant! I thought that business was all cleared up."

"UCLA is sending out a press release today, so I'll be back in the lab by the end of the week. My credentials with the academic board are being restored, and we've put in a formal appeal with the Nobel— wait."

She turned from the glass to look squarely at Sheldon.

"How did you know the matter had been resolved? They've not released any details to the press yet."

"I didn't, I— I only assumed, that you… that is, I knew you would never act unethically."

Amy inched closer to Sheldon, bending down to catch his averted, hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression.

"But you mentioned Blakeman, the internal plant. How did you know that?"

"I, uhm, I…" he hugged the stuffed dogopus across his chest. "I have friends in high places. I like to know what's happening in the academic community at large, should I ever, uhm, decide to… to… branch out, you know, beyond physics."

"When have you _ever_ thought about branching out beyond physics?"

"Plenty of times."

"You're a terrible liar," Amy said directly, taking another step in his direction. "You can't have known about Bill's actions unless you were involved. April said someone had…"

There it was, his guilty face. Amy clapped her hand to her mouth again, this time to choke back a happy sob.

It was _Sheldon_. Her mystery representative, calling in investigative favors in the academic community, pouring over thousands of recorded results to verify her findings, compiling California penal code, sifting through hours of security footage, hacking emails and phone records. He had given the investigators _everything_.

"You… you gave me my job back."

"Your job? What are you talking about?"

"Stop it!" Amy grasped his arms tightly, then hastily removed her hands when she felt him tense. Like scalding water to the palm.

"I'm sorry," Amy continued. "But you… oh my god… there was hacking involved in that! And the video footage. You sent it all to the police, didn't you? You must have threatened every contact you had in the University system. How did you get them to review it so quickly?"

"Really Amy, this whole notion of yours is preposterous. I've not involved myself with _anything_ of the sort."

"Yes you did!" she was crying now. Big, wet, happy tears she couldn't stop. It was as close to a knight-in-shining-armor move as one could get in the 21st century. And Sheldon, _her_ Sheldon, had made it happen.

"Fine. If I were to have hacked through some very simple security code, or threatened a few scientific review boards…"

Amy beamed at him.

"And I'm not saying I _did_… Hypothetically, if that happened, I would be doing it because academic researchers should not have to fear performing and submitting their best work and then be threatened by capitalist markets who stand to lose from their discoveries. It was… that is, if I had done anything… it would have been a contribution to the scientific community at large, not one individual."

Amy turned back to the glass as another hammerhead darted past, and Sheldon did the same. They swam in tight circles as the aquarium attendant dumped fish into the enclosure for the morning feeding.

"Oh wow, I've never been here for the feedings. I'd not want to navigate the midday crowds. So many unclean children."

"Yes, I thought you might want to avoid the general public."

They watched as the sharks tore at scaly fish flesh, the tiniest red hint of blood diffusing into the water.

"It's like the Discovery Channel, but better. I can get as close to the glass as I want without distorting my vision," Sheldon said.

"I'm glad you like it."

"How did you get this reserved?"

"You know… made a phone call, asked some questions."

"Did you plan this yourself?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you like hammerheads?"

"Not particularly."

"Do you like the dogopus?"

"Sure."

"Do you still want to be with me?"

He didn't look down at her, instead choosing to focus on the feasting hammerheads. But if the white-knuckled grip on the dogopus was any indication, Amy could sense his anxiety.

"I never didn't want to be with you."

"You initiated the stall."

"Because I thought that's what you wanted. After that night when you… when we almost… I felt I had pushed you too far."

"Is that not something you should have asked me about?"

"Your actions were pretty clear."

"What?"

"Sheldon, you ran away from me. Well, not ran, so much as left the apartment." Amy traced a finger over the glass absentmindedly. "But I never want you to feel like you have to leave. I want you to come to me with your problems, to feel safe with me. I want… I can only hope that one day you'll feel as secure with me as you feel with your whiteboard."

"My whiteboard? Why would you want me to treat you like my whiteboard? Do you expect multiple body markings and a daily rub-down in Expo spray?"

"No, Sheldon, you're being intentionally literal. I mean…" Amy exhaled loudly, leaning on the glass. Sheldon frowned at her, the 'Do Not Lean on the Glass' sign glaring down at them. His patronizing look at least meant he was making eye contact with her. "You once said that you loved physics. That it was like looking at the universe naked."

Sheldon began to protest. "I—I, I—"

"Just let me finish, please? I don't mean anything about _literally_ being naked."

"But Amy—"

"No! I get to talk. I want you to feel like you can be open, exposed even, and know that I'm not going to make fun of you, or hurt you, or leave you if you put all of your metaphorical cards on the table."

"I was just—"

"Shhsh! A lot of what has happened between us over the past few weeks has been because we were too scared to share everything with each other, too afraid to be exposed. It's been absolute hell for me not having you to talk to about everything that's been going on at UCLA, and I feel that if I had just been upfront and honest with you about the Nobel win in the beginning, none of this would have ever happened!"

Amy looked toward the top of the tunnel, the hammerheads watching them like they were big fish the attendant had forgotten to throw in the pool. "And I wouldn't have ruined your birthday."

"Are you finished?" Sheldon asked, irritation evident in his voice. "You did _not_ ruin my birthday. You… you somehow find some way to make me happy even when I'm angry with you. And then, delivery boys start showing up in my apartment, disrupting my weekend routine, and, as much as I dislike surprises, I end up with a one-of-a-kind replica of a cross-bred animal that I mentioned in passing during a conversation i had before I even _knew _you, which only shows how much you try to make me happy by taking what I say into account."

"I don't understand why you're angry," Amy said.

"That's just it, I'm not angry!" he barked.

"Tell that to your tone," Amy said.

"No, I'm not angry at you. But I'm angry because I'm not angry!"

"Uh… what?"

Sheldon rolled his head back in frustration. This time, _he _shifted closer to Amy. They weren't touching, but she was caught between the wall of blue that was the aquarium glass and the wall of blue that was Sheldon's Tetris shirt.

"I'm angry because… you do things and I don't get angry. Other people do the same things, and I _do _get angry. I'm having a hard time admitting that… there seems to be a double standard with you," he huffed. "And when other people do things, I don't get angry. I don't care who Penny flirts with, I don't care that Leonard might go and drink himself into a stupor, and I don't care that Wolowitz risks his own health by sharing food with anyone he can pass a plate to. But I _do_ care if you do those things, because I can't… that is, I don't… I get angry if you're interacting with other men. I'm angry because you keep _doing _things to make me happy, and it works! I get happy, which could lead to contentment, which might lead to stagnation. But sometimes, I don't even care if I stagnate, because I' so darn _happy_ about it!"

Sheldon was getting so flustered his Texas twang was leaking into the monologue.

"I get angry if you go out with Penny and Bernadette, because other people will make advancements toward you and I'm not there to tell them that we have an agreement. I am NOT angry over your success. I am proud of that. But I get angry when people start taking advantage of you professionally, _because _you're so successful. I'm angry because… I can't tell you what you want to hear… I… I get angry because, I've not ever had to deal with these feelings for another person, and I'm having a hard time negotiating my own response to them."

"Sheldon, you have to know I would never jeopardize our relationship by cheating on you."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why won't you cheat on me?"

"Because I lo—" she caught herself. "Because we have an agreement. Legally binding. And you're the only one I know who likes Counterfactuals as much as I do," she said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"You were going to say something else."

Damn that Vulcan hearing.

The silence was palpable. The quiet pair could just make out auditory swirls of water from the sharks surrounding them. Amy was in an actual and figurative shark tank. She'd never felt so exposed before in her life. But isn't that what she'd just encouraged Sheldon to be? Exposed?

"I don't think you're ready for what I have to say," Amy admitted.

"You're probably right."

"So it'll be unspoken. But maybe, now that you know, it can operate as an extra level of assurance of my fidelity; the dictionary definition, not the fidelity of warped societal vernacular."

Sheldon nodded.

"You're not the only one with insecurities, though."

"What do _you_ have to be insecure about?" Sheldon asked.

"I'm afraid, that one day, I'm going to push you too far and you'll never want to see me again."

"I don't think that is likely to happen."

"After we kissed, you pushed away from me like I had bathed in sewage. How am I supposed to respond to that?"

"I… I admit, that was not one of my better moments."

"You characterized sex with me as 'ridiculous and off-putting'."

"No. I said, 'I find the concept of coitus ridiculous and off-putting.' There is little about you that I would call 'ridiculous', and you are certainly far from off-putting. In fact, you're…" if eyes could sting, Amy would've be pricked from head to toe by Sheldon's surveillance. He gulped. "Light-years away from off-putting. Coitus, generally, does not appeal to me. But intimacy with you..." he just shrugged his shoulders.

"I know it's something that we can work on," Amy attempted, changing the subject. "But you… But then you…" she still had a difficult time vocalizing the magnitude of his actions concerning her job. He had stuck his professional neck out for her. Broken laws for her. "But then you basically risked your credibility in your field to defend my research. I never knew you cared so much."

"You had to know."

"But we weren't even speaking."

"Amy, it was always for you. You deserved it, and it was wrong, not to mention illegal for someone to accuse you of falsifying your findings. How could I not do this small thing for you, when you play Counterfactuals with me, and fix me Strawberry Quik, and build dogopuses for me? How could I not give you back a little bit of the happiness that you've given me?"

"I really want to hug you right now."

"Okay," he said.

"What?"

"I said okay. Come on, before I change my mind."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and he pulled her flush into his body. She registered the dogopus at the small of her back, dangling from Sheldon's hands. She was tucked so snug against him, she could feel his chin resting on her head.

"You asked me what I wanted," Sheldon said.

"Do you know?"

"I knew then. You. Just you."

"It may be your birthday, but I believe I got the better present," she said, her words somewhat muffled by his shirt.

"It's not ideal, but it's not… unpleasant. I admit I feel rather—"

Amy moved her head upwards to meet Sheldon's eyes.

"—secure."

"Good," she whispered.

She went up and he came down, and, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Pasadena's favorite power couple met in the middle.

"Amy…" Sheldon mumbled against her mouth.

"Huhm?"

"What else do I get for my birthday?"

"How does a make-your-own sundae bar sound?"

"Wonderful! How did that happen?"

"We're having to share space with a five-year-old's birthday at Stone Cold Creamery."

"What?!" he said, pulling back abruptly.

"Sheldon," Amy giggled. "Bazinga."

She pecked his lips again.

"Do I still get my ice cream?"

"I've got it all back at the apartment."

"You…"

"Kiss me or I'm taking the nuts away."

And, well, Sheldon _does_ like walnut toppings.

* * *

_**That's all folks!  
**_

_**Again, thanks for reading. Would love a review if you've been waiting til the end for overall suggestions of the piece (I'm quite notorious for doing that because I like to give an impression of the story holistically). I would love to know if I kept the characters IC, and if not, during which part I drifted into OOC territory. It's a pet peeve of mine for my own writing. I don't want to promise anything, because further multi-chapter stories will have to wait until August. I'm writing a thesis. :( However, if I do try my hand at another Shamy fic, I've got an idea floating around that could be the biggest stretch I've ever written for a fic ever. The only hint: WWII. For now though, thank you for your support on this story. Long live the SHAMY, and looking forward to progress in Season 7!**_


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